THE DUST OF DEATH
by
Paul Charles.

Garda Inspector Starrett is in his mid forties, dresses well, likes a pint of Guinness and is a decade into his third career. The locals say he may have a sixth
sense: he's not so sure but has been eternally grateful when that special something or other has kept him out of trouble and come to his aid on a few of
his cases. Now the bloodied body of a crucified man is discovered in a Church in an Irish Heritage Town on the first Friday of summer and Starrett and
the rest of the Serious Crime Unit are investigating. The team soon realizes that town is not nearly as righteous as its many churches might suggest. 


Paul Charles was born and raised in Magherafelt in the north of
Ireland and is one of Europe's best-known music promoters and
agents. He is the author of eight Inspector Christy Kennedy novels,
the most recent of which, Sweetwater, was published by Brandon in
2006.

Also by Paul Charles

The DI Christy Kennedy Mysteries:
/ Love the Sound of Breaking Glass
Last Boat to Camden Town
Fountain of Sorrow
The Ballad of Sean and Wilko
The Hissing of the Silent Lonely Room
Ive Heard the Banshee Sing
The Justice Factory
Sweetwater

Other fiction:

First of the True Believers

Non-fiction: 

Playing Live

First published in 2007 by Brandon
an imprint of Mount Eagle Publications
Dingle, Co. Kerry, Ireland, and
Unit 3, Olympia Trading Estate, Coburg Road, London N22 6TZ, England
www. brandonbooks. com
2468 10 97531
Copyright © Paul Charles 2007

The author has asserted his moral rights.

ISBN 978-086322-369-3

Mount Eagle Publications/Sliabh an Fhiolair Teoranta receives support from
the Arts Council/An Chomhairle Ealaion.
Dedication and thanks

To John Mcivor for his company, wit and humour on the
hundreds of hours of driving around the length and breadth of
the county introducing me to his Donegal. Further thanks are
due and offered to Steve and the fab Brandon team for their
invaluable energy and support; to Terry Fitzgerald for her
eagle eye; to Andy and Cora for a lifetime's energy and to
Catherine for the sense of adventure that has taken us down
many a lane in County Donegal.

Cover design: www.designsuite.ie
Typesetting by Red Barn Publishing, Skeagh, Skibbereen
Printed in the UK
Chapter One

IT HAD EVERYTHING to do with light, which itself has everything to
do with darkness.
As Garda Inspector Starrett wandered around the space, he
couldn't help but think that this crime wouldn't have been half as effective
on a dark winter's morning as it was on the first Friday of summer.
No, he thought, for this crime to enjoy the utmost impact, it needed the power of the early-morning summer sunlight that was shining
through the stained-glass window. The coloured light gave it the illusion
of being itself a biblical scene cut in a stained-glass window.
In his twelve-year career as a member of Ireland's national police
service, An Garda Siochana, the inspector had found that if he focused
on this kind of thinking he could pick his way better through the minefield
of the crime scenes he came across. One slight trip and he might
stumble into the area of "How could humans possibly do this to each
other?" and he would be of absolutely no use to the poor unfortunates
before him. Not that catching the perpetrator, or perpetrators, was ever
going to be of any real use to the deceased. It could, however, act as some
kind of closure for the relatives and loved ones left behind.
Starrett walked slowly towards the remains of what had once been
a human body.
The body would have been visible to any man, woman or child
who might have entered the Second Federation Church on Church
Street in Ramelton, County Donegal, that morning. Geographically
speaking, Donegal is in northern Ireland, although politically it's part
of the Republic of Ireland, or, as it is now popularly known, southern
Ireland. The church had been started in Dallas, Texas, in 1908 by a
Donegal man, William O'Donnell, and the premises the gardai were
cautiously starting to search was their only church outside of the USA.
"My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?" Starrett murmured.
When Jesus called out that verse from Psalm 22, was he pointing
the finger of accusation at his Father, or merely accepting his fate?
Starrett's mind wandered down through the rest of the psalm to, "My
throat is dried up like baked clay; and my tongue cleaveth to my jaws;
and thou hast brought me into the dust of death."
Starrett wondered what the last words of the victim before him
might have been. Who did this poor unfortunate in front of him accuse
in his final moments? Because, just like Jesus, the victim had been
pinned to a cross. But unlike Jesus, he had been crucified inside a house
of worship.

Chapter Two

OUR BOYO HASN'T just been nailed to the cross," Starrett
said, as much to himself as to Garda Sergeant Garvey, who,
as usual, was by Starrett's side. "No, Packie, he looks like
he's suffered the indignity of a copy of the full crucifixion."
Inspector Starrett, a forty-five-year-old local, spoke in a slow, considered
drawl, punctuated with many pauses* which sometimes gave
the impression that he was voicing thoughts that had just occurred to
him.
Sergeant Garvey, thirty years old, from Galway and a hurling
champion, tended to let his superior do most of the talking--and most
of the thinking. However, Packie, as he was known on and off the field,
wasn't scared of rolling up his sleeves and getting stuck in to less cerebral
police work. It wasn't exactly that he didn't need directing (on or
off the field); he positively thrived on it.
Starrett and Garvey considered the victim in silence.
The victim was male, Caucasian and probably in his early forties.
He was roughly five feet ten inches tall and approximately 140 pounds
in weight. Aside from a chamois loincloth, he was naked. What must
have been dark brown hair was severely matted and almost black from
the blood which had wept from the lesions his barbed-wire crown of
thorns had caused. His head hung slightly to the left and at about a
ninety-degree angle to his chest.
A stainless-steel nail had been driven through each wrist, fixing one
to each end of the horizontal beam of the cross. The right foot was
placed over the left, and another six-inch stainless-steel nail pinned
them both to the lower part of the stipes of the cross. There was an
inch-wide stab wound six or so inches beneath the heart.
His lifeblood had dripped from his many wounds, and the red and
blue patterned floor was distorted with what looked like the outline of
a great red-black landmass, similar in shape to North America--with
Australia grafted on to the east coast for good measure.
"Who discovered the body?" Starrett asked.
"The caretaker, Thomas Black," Packie replied, not for a single
moment taking his eyes off the cross. "He came in here as usual at
about 8.40 this morning to clean up after yesterday's service."
"How many services do they have?" Starrett enquired.
"Every weekday at 7 p.m., and then there's three services on
Sunday: eight o'clock in the morning, noon and seven in the evening,"
Packie replied. "They work on accommodating the farmers: eight in
the morning's just after milking time; noon's just before lunch time;
and seven comes after second milking."
"Was the church locked up?"
"No. It's the Second Federation Church's policy to leave its doors
open at all times as a safe haven for those in need. Apparently in
America, at least according to Thomas Black, they leave bread and
water as well."
"If they tried to do that around here, people would start using the
church as a cafe," Starrett said, walking towards the body, carefully
skirting the blood.
The rough, weathered pine cross had been attached crudely by rope
to the front of the high pulpit, into which Starrett cautiously climbed.
From his new vantage point, he could see--just--that the victim's
upper torso around the shoulders and on the sides was a crazy maze of
congealed bloody welts.
As Starrett turned to descend the nine steps, he noticed that local
Garda Francis Casey and Bean Gharda Nuala Gibson had entered the
church and were standing by the door, four eyes transfixed by the cross.
"Make sure no one else comes in here," Starrett ordered before continuing
his journey around the congealed blood shape. But once again
the elegantly carved antique oak pulpit obscured his full view of both
the victim's back and the front of the cross.
Starrett turned towards Packie. "Did Thomas Black say whether or
not he generally had a lot of cleaning up to do after their services?"
Starrett could see that the blood had drained from the usually rosycheeked
sergeant's face. Years had been added to the deceptively youthful
looks of his sergeant; neither he nor new arrivals, Gibson and Casey,
could drag their eyes away from the horrific scene.
Starrett clapped his hands three times, the sound echoing around
the church loudly, snapping them out of their trances.
"OK?" Starrett said loudly. "Let's get stuck into our work here,
please."
"Sorry," Packie replied. "Ahm, yesy the caretaker said that it was
mostly sweetie papers and tissues."
"And was there any such mess this morning?" Starrett interrupted.
"Well, Thomas Black did say that when he first arrived he didn't
immediately notice the addition to the altar, and he worked his way
through the pews cleaning up. It wasn't until he'd made it up as far as
the elders' front pew that he registered our friend here."
"You're joking!" Starrett said.
"I know, I know. I said the same thing to him, and he said he was
so preoccupied by his own thoughts. He said that when he did see it
though--when he'd reached the front pews--the shock was so powerful
it literally took the legs out from under him. More so because he'd
been in the victim's presence for so long without realising it."
"And the sweepings?" Starrett pushed.
"Still beside the front pew."
Starrett heard a slight commotion at the door and turned towards
it.

'Sorry, sir, you can't come in just now," Gibson was saying, stepping
into the path of a stout, five-foot-five ball of energy.
"Whatdoya mean, trying to deny me entry to my father's house?"
came the reply from a fine oratorical voice, one you would never have
placed inside its owner's body.
There was a little pantomime scuffle as both Gibson and Casey
tried to restrain the intruder, who, when he saw the cross and the body
nailed to it, dropped to his knees, clasped his hands in front of the most
southern of his chins and recited: "My God, my God, why hast thou
forsaken me?"
"Hello, Ivan," Starrett said as he made his way back towards the
entrance. "I've been expecting you."
"First Minister, please," the wee man said as he awkwardly rose
from his knees, using Gibson and Casey as human crutches. "What
exactly is this travesty, Inspector?"
Starrett offered his hand in friendship. It was ignored. "Sorry, First
Minister Morrison, pray forgive me. It's just that I'm not used to seeing
you without your cassock. Let's you and me leave the professionals
here to examine the scene, though I'm not sure how much good it will
do. I've always thought that if a murderer is stupid enough to leave any
incriminating evidence, he might as well leave us a note, and most murderers
in my experience are anything but stupid. My sergeant here, on
the other hand, believes in getting out the proverbial fine-toothcomb.
Tell me, First Minister, have you ever seen a fine-toothcomb?"
Moving his ignored hand to Morrison's back, Starrett applied a
gentle force to turn the First Minister of Ramelton s Second Federation
Church back in the direction of the early-morning light.

Chapter Three



INSPECTOR STARRETT AND First Minster Morrison stood on the
steps of the church. Starrett, his hands buried deep in the pockets
of his black polished trousers, swayed backwards and forwards on
to the toes of his well-polished, black leather shoes. The pink collar and
cuffs of his shirt stuck out from under his blue woollen jumper, and his
protection against the legendary and lethal Donegal winds and frequent
showers was a black, American-style, zip-up windcheater.
Morrison was dressed straight off the peg in a yellow and black patterned
three-piece suit and a mismatched light blue paisley shirt. The
sandals without socks and the uneven buttoning of his shirt were further
testimony that he'd dressed in a hurry.
"Look at that, would you?" Starrett said, nodding in the general
direction of Rathmullan. They could see in the distance--over the
rooftops of Ramelton--Lough Swilly and beyond Buncrana to Slieve
Main, Slieve Snaght and the other mountain ranges of the Inishowen
Peninsula in all their majestic and colourful glory. "I can never figure
out, when we have all this incredible natural beauty on our doorstep,
how anyone could ever be inspired to create a man-made scene of such
darkness as the one we've just witnessed inside."
"It appears that we humans find more inspiration looking within
ourselves than we do looking outwards," Morrison replied smugly.
"Too deep for me, First Minister," Starrett said, and they both fell
into silence. The inspector continued to be captivated by the views
while Morrison turned around to gawk at the several crows on the roof

of the church playing a precarious game of leapfrog on the ridge of the
Bangor Blue slated roof of the church.
"Have you figured out yet who played the part of Pontius Pilate in
our indoor drama?" asked Morrison
"Bugger Pontius Pilate; I still haven't figured out the identity of the
boyo pinned to the cross," Starrett admitted.
"Oh, that part's easy. That's James Moore; he's a local carpenter."
"One of your flock?" Starrett asked, thinking that the great thing
about clergy, no matter their denomination, was that you just needed
to give them a wee push and they were off. Wind and push.
"No, no, we're not divine enough for the likes of him," Morrison
admitted, looking as if he were trying to act uncharacteristically chummy.
"Some people really do need to see that you're able to walk on water
before they'll join your flock these days. Now, at the Second Federation,
we do believe that there is a practical explanation for the majority of
miracles."
"And that particular one?" Starrett asked.
"Well, when you take into consideration that Jesus' father was in
fact a carpenter, it's easy. What we'd say was that he built a platform
half an inch beneath the water level and, voilcD?
"Ah now, come on, First Minister Morrison, you're kidding."
"I'm not kidding. I never kid," Morrison snapped indignantly. "In
this world, and in today's society, more than any other, all religions boil
down to is a simple ability for mankind to coexist. The rest is all window
dressing. So, you give people an odd trick or two, let them see that
there is something more to life than just themselves; a man walking on
water is really just a political spin: cHey, vote for Jesus of Nazareth. He
can walk on water; he can come back from the dead; he can feed thousands
with five loaves and two fishes.' And they follow in their droves.
Why, do you think, are congregations called flocks? It's because they
act like sheep."
"Well, I'd thank you to keep your voice down a bit. The majority
of my team are members of somebody's flock, and I'll tell you that
after today's job they're certainly going to need something they can
look up to."
"I agree," Morrison replied, dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"I've certainly never knocked any other religion or denomination. Our
view at the Second Federation Church is that men by themselves are
weak, but men bonded together by a shared goal or ideal are strong.
They can become a very potent force, in fact."
Starrett was half tempted to inquire why, if the Second Federation
Church was such a potent force, it had only one church in the whole
of Ireland.
"What can you tell me about James Moore?" he asked instead.
"Not a lot really," Morrison replied, turning to face Starrett and
attempting to ape the Inspector's hands-in-pockets stance. Either the
First Minister's short arms or else his large stomach made such a gesture
impossible, so he chose to rub his hands together instead.
"At this stage in the investigation, a few choice crumbs will suffice,"
Starrett offered in encouragement.
"Well, I know him only because we had to replace all the bookshelves
in the library at the Manse a few months ago," Morrison said,
a shower of spittle ejecting from his mouth as he spoke. "We couldn't
find a master craftsman amongst our own flock, so my wife, Mrs
Morrison, sourced James."
'Do you know how she found him?"
"I do, as it happens. Mr Moore had done some similar work for her
best friend," the First Minister replied.
"OK, so where does our Mr James Moore live?"
"A cottage over in Downings."
"Do you know exactly where?" Starrett asked, beginning to grow
impatient at having to drag every morsel of information from
Morrison.
"Oh, up on the hill somewhere. Mrs Morrison will have his exact
address. She took care of all the business end of the transaction."
"And how long did the job take?"
"Around four months. You know what tradesmen are like,"
Morrison said.
"So when exactly was this?" asked Starrett.
The reply was interrupted by the arrival of the forensic team,
including the local pathologist, Samantha Aljoe. Starrett was surprised
that Morrison hardly acknowledged her presence, even when he went
to the trouble of introducing the beautiful young lady.
Fuss over, Starrett and Morrison resumed their conversation.
"I already told you that James Moore did the work a few months
ago. Why ask the same question twice?" Morrison responded
defensively.
"Well," Starrett said, his ice-blue eyes bearing down on the First
Minister, "as you'd told me he worked for you for four months, I just
wanted to pin you down to when he completed his work for you."
"Oh right, I see," Morrison replied, with all the innocence of a
child. "He concluded the work two months ago. He started work on
the project in January and completed it for us on the last day of
April."
"And were you pleased with the standard of Mr Moore's work?"
"Well, the shelves are still standing," Morrison offered, less charitably
than one would expect from a member of the clergy, particularly
when the person under discussion was pinned to a cross not more than
thirty yards from where they stood. "Mrs Morrison seemed extremely
happy with his work, so much so that she recommended Mr Moore to
another of her friends, who was in need of some cabinets for her
kitchen."
"Could I trouble you for the names of both of her friends, please?"
"Yes, let me see, now . . . Mrs Eileen McLaughlin and Mrs Betsy
Bell."
"And in that order?" Starrett continued.
"No, actually it was the other way round."
"OK," Starrett continued, raising his right hand to his face. His
index finger was permanently bent in a less than acute V, which fitted
perfectly around his chin. Starrett was always joking that his forefinger
was so shaped for giving directions around the hilly winding roads of
Donegal.
"What?" Morrison said impatiently.
"Sorry, I was just thinking. When James Moore was working for
you, did you ever spend any time chatting to him?"
Morrison looked at Starrett as if he'd just asked him if he ever
stepped in cow clap in his bare feet whilst walking in the nearby hilly
fields.
"I may have passed the time of day with him on a couple of occasions,
and I wrote the cheques," Morrison replied.
"So, you can't tell me anything else about him?"
"I'm afraid not."
"When did you first see him this morning?" Starrett asked, hoping
to pull a rabbit and not a turkey from his invisible magic hat.
"Why, just now . . ." Morrison started slightly flustered.
"I don't think so, Ivan."
"I'll thank you not to use that tone of familiarity with me, please,
Inspector."
"OK, First Minister, I'll apologise, if you will."
"Sorry?"
"Well, I'd respectfully suggest that when you entered the church a
few minutes ago and fell to your knees in prayer, you were too far away
to recognise exactly who the victim was, particularly with his head
bowed and his features obscured by his hair."
"Look, Inspector," Morrison tutted, "do you really think that my
caretaker was going to report this to the gardai before he reported it to
me? Guardians of the Peace you may be, but at the end of the day, I pay
his wages."
"At the very end of the day, First Minister, the church pays both
your wages," Starrett replied quickly, "and I'm sure it doesn't pay those
wages just so you can waste my time. So, what I'd really like to know
is, why did you go through that whole charade, pretending you hadn't
seen James Moore's body crucified on that cross before?"
"Shock," Morrison offered quickly, without any apparent degree of
remorse. "I'm afraid I can put it down to nothing more than shock."
"Ahm," Starrett said, stretching the word until he could find what
he wanted to say, "I can't see how it would have advantaged you to
behave in that way."
"Exactly, Inspector," Morrison replied, looking slightly relieved but
still transmitting an air of superiority. "Trouble yourself no further, as I
can assure you there was no advantage. And I'm afraid I can't swear to
that on a Bible. We don't have a Bible in the Second Federation Church,
although we do work to a version of the Ten Commandments, only we
have twelve and they are infinitely more practical."
If you haven't succumbed to the Bible, how come you dropped to
your knees in prayer and quoted from it when you first entered the
church?"

I didn't claim I was perfect, and in times of stress, I find myself
reverting to my childhood instructions and beliefs. What you were witnessing
was purely a knee-jerk reaction."
"Right then," Starrett said. "Is Mrs Morrison in the Manse at the
moment? I'd just like to ask her a few questions about James Moore."
"Ach, no ... Mrs Morrison is not currently in residence," Morrison
replied, looking somewhat uncomfortable.
"Oh, and when do you expect her back?"
"That's the problem," Morrison said, refusing to meet Starrett's
stare. "I'm afraid I have to report that I know not where she is, nor do
I know when she will return."

Chapter Four





STARRETT WATCHED AS Morrison departed the church steps and
waddled off to roam alone in his spacious rectory. For a husband
who said he didn't know the whereabouts of his wife, the first
minister seemed remarkably unconcerned. For a minister who had just
witnessed the desecration of his church, he seemed positively blase.
For a human being who had just observed the grotesquely tortured
body of a fellow mortal, he seemed more preoccupied by everyday
concerns.
By contrast, the young members of Starrett's team were plainly
traumatised by the scene and openly respectful of the remains of James
Moore as they lowered the cross to the floor. After the photographer
had been allowed several minutes to snap the victim from every possible
angle, under the careful supervision of Dr Samantha Aljoe, the steel
nails were painstakingly removed.
Starrett watched from the distance of the doorway as his team went
efficiently about its work. That they were all young--probably the
youngest team in the entire service--wasn't entirely accidental. Starrett
had no time for old-timers with their arrogance and their airs of superiority.
He liked to recruit members into his team soon after they joined
the gardai, before they'd had a chance to learn any of the many bad
habits and the shortcuts evident in the work of the old-timers. Starrett
preferred his team to be made up of youngsters, ambitious in the art of
detection and, as in the case of Sergeant Packie Garvey, not afraid of a
bit of strenuous legwork.
Thinking of legwork, Starrett thought as he focused on Dr Aljoe,
she was a fine figure of a woman in anyone's eyes. She was based in
Letterkenny, the largest town in County Donegal. Letterkenny was
being forced to grow too quickly, robbing it--at least Starrett
believed--of the opportunity ever to become a magnificent or even a
soulful city. Starrett reckoned Letterkenny was a bit like his young
guards in that they both needed to be nurtured and cared for in order
to give them a chance of achieving their goals. He knew that there was
a good chance Letterkenny had missed its opportunity; he was infinitely
more hopeful about the members of his team.
Strictly speaking, Dr Aljoe wasn't a part of his team. She was
attached to Letterkenny General Hospital, and whenever the Dublin
pathologist was already on a case, Dr Aljoe could be on call for the
whole of County Donegal. Starrett's domain covered the county north
of a line from Ramelton through Kilmacrenan, on across the
Derryveagh Mountains to Gweedore and on to the west coast at
Bunbeg. Obviously, most of the bigger towns like Milford,
Rathmullan, Dunfanaghy, Falcarragh and Carrigart had their own
garda stations, but they all fell under the umbrella of the area covered
by Starrett's Serious Crime Squad. And umbrellas were always a necessary
accessory when in the hills of Donegal.
"What can you tell me?" Starrett asked Dr Aljoe, who was busy
examining the body, her long blond hair pulled back out of her way in
a ponytail.
"I can tell you Liverpool beat Chelsea last night, I can tell you that
Gay Byrne no longer hosts the Late Late Show, and I can tell you that
my car's not going to last the summer," Samantha Aljoe said, as she
examined the corpse and, in particular, the numerous and still moist
welts on his back.
"I was thinking more along the lines of what you could tell me
about our victim here, Mr James Moore."
"Oh, you've discovered his name then. That means you must be a
detective, Detective. Or was he just one of your drinking buddies?"
"I know nothing about him apart from his name and the fact that
he was a carpenter," Starrett continued, pleased that the doctor wasn't
in the slightest in awe of him, which meant--in his eyes at least--that
he was in with a chance with her.
"You're forgetting the other obvious fact," Aljoe said, "that he's
dead."
Starrett, amused at her wit, discreetly observed Packie Garvey and
Nuala Gibson breaking into their first, albeit reluctant, smiles of the
morning.
"You say he was a carpenter?" the doctor continued as she removed
with a pair of tweezers something invisible to Starrett's naked eyes, and
bagged it.
"Yes."
"It's all a bit unimaginative, isn't it? 'Oh, he's a carpenter,' says the
murderer, 'so we'll have to crucify him then, won't we?'"
"Fair play to your imagination there, Dr Aljoe, but you're making
too many assumptions. At least two, in fact."
"Oh, and pray tell me exactly what am I assuming, Inspector?" she
said, rising from her hunkers as agilely as any athlete. She turned to
face him.
She was close enough for Starrett to smell her breath and her
unique blend of scents. He always thought that people's aromas were
as unique as their fingerprints. He'd never in his life met two women
who smelled the same, and he would also admit that this particular
piece of information came from a long exhaustive investigation.
Samantha Aljoe, even in a shapeless, transparent, disposable blue bodysuit,
moved with the agility and grace of the slim, shapely and extremely
sensual woman she was. She held his stare. Starrett thought that,
even considering the circumstances they continued to meet under, she
was probably aware of the effect she had on him.

And?" she prompted, winking at Starrett, obviously enjoying
herself.

"OK; although his earthly father, Joseph, was a carpenter, Jesus
actually wasn't."
I'll bow to your obvious superior knowledge on that one."
It's a common misconception," Starrett offered as an olive branch.
"Why, thank you," she smiled and offered him a curtsy, "and my
other assumption?"
Well, with the use of the word 'they', you're suggesting that there was more than one perpetrator," Starrett said, trying to recall if she'd ever winked at him before.
"Surely it would have taken more than one man to carry out this
charade?"
"And there you go making another assumption," Starrett replied as
he and Garvey helped roll the corpse over on to its bloodied back.
"You're not suggesting it might have been a woman who did this
to the poor man, are you?"
"Why on earth not?" Starrett replied, shocked and surprised that
Aljoe would have been the kind of woman to have supported the
"women are the weaker sex" theory.
"Well, Starrett, for heaven's sake, only a man would ever put this
on another man," she said, pointing to the loincloth. "I mean,
please ..."
Nuala Gibson was now openly giggling and just about able to contain
it to a respectful chuckle.
"OK," Dr Aljoe said, sounding more businesslike. "Mr Moore here
could have died from any one of his wounds. Our murderer seems to
have gone to a lot more trouble than was necessary. From all the bleeding,
I can tell you that he definitely died on the cross. The nails were
driven into him when he was still alive. I can't figure out why they were
put through the wrists and not the palms of the hands, though."
"If you put nails into the palms of the hands they would tear out
of the flesh between the fingers once the weight of the body was pulling
against them. The Romans sussed that if you drove the nails between
the small bones on the wrist, the body would hang on the cross for as
long as they needed."
"Of course," Aljoe said. "I suppose I was biased by the numerous
religious paintings I've seen; obviously they exploit the effect of bloodstained
palms."
"Correct," Starrett muttered.
"Both of his legs are broken," the doctor proclaimed. "Was that
another Roman refinement?"
"Correct," Starrett said. "When the legs were broken, the poor
souls couldn't use them to take any strain or pain away from their arms
or upper torso."
"The pain this poor man endured would have been excruciating.
Are you suggesting that maybe our James Moore was made to suffer
the exact same death as Jesus Christ?"
"Well, not exactly," Starrett sighed. "Surprisingly, Jesus Christ's legs
were not broken, although those of the two thieves who were crucified
with him were."


Chapter Five



STARRETT SAW Dr Aljoe to her car, a pink Volkswagen VW130
shaped like a tent. He took great pleasure in helping her out of
her plastic overalls and felt even greater pleasure when the doctor
removed her hair-band and her strawberry blond mane tumbled free.
Underneath the hospital-issue one-piece, forensic-safe, disposal
romper-suit, she wore a more stylish black trouser suit and a snow
white man's shirt, buttoned the whole way up to the top. She undid
the top three buttons and exchanged her work slip-ons for a pair of
black high heels, unrolling the bottoms of her trousers to accommodate
them while Starrett stood back and admired the metamorphosis.
Although she offered to phone him later with the results of the
autopsy, he said he'd prefer to receive them in person, and as he was
due to visit Letterkenny towards the end of the day (a fabrication), perhaps
they could discuss it then? Maybe even over a drink?
They arranged to meet at her office in Letterkenny General
Hospital at 6.30.
Ten minutes later, Starrett--accompanied by Sergeant Packie
Garvey, Bean Gharda Nuala Gibson and Garda Francis Casey--was sitting
at the corner table in Steve's Cafe on the corner of Church and
Bridge streets. Starrett was a regular, and most days he'd eat his breakfast
there. There were three reasons for this: first, the food was second
to none; second, the staff were friendly and helpful; and finally, and
most importantly, he figured you could get a better sense of Ramelton
village life by sitting (obviously minus the uniformed gardai now
accompanying him) in Steve's for an hour than you could patrolling for
a week the twenty-five streets which made up the village's nucleus.
As Starrett studied a family of six eating at a nearby table, Packie
Garvey asked, "Has Ivan Morrison really no idea at all where his
wife is?"
"The first minister claims not," Starrett replied, still distracted by
the family table.
"Have we talked to anyone who knows the victim?" Gibson asked.
"So far just the first minister," Starrett replied. "We need to talk to
Betsy Bell and Eileen McLaughlin though. Betsy recommended James
Moore to Mrs Morrison, and she in turn recommended him to Eileen.
So I suppose after breckie they should be our first call. Packie and
myself will visit both of them while youse two go through the records
and see if you can't get any other information out of that clapped-out
television with typewriter attached they call our computer."
"I keep telling you, Inspector," Packie protested as their breakfasts
arrived, "it's not a computer problem."
"Oh yes, that's right," Starrett replied; "we need a bigger motorway
to get the information highway into Ramelton, is that it?"
"Not exactly, Inspector," Packie smiled. "It's called broadband, not
a motorway."
"Right, I've got it, and tell me this, Packie, how many lanes does
this broadband have?"
"Say twenty or so."
"And how many lanes does our current system have?"

"No more than one."
"So, we're at the end of a country lane in more ways than one,"
Starrett said. "Ah well, no bother, less competition for this amazing
grub."
"It's all a wee bit too much of the comfort food, you know,
Inspector," Gibson offered, as she accepted delivery of her tea and
toast.
Nothing wrong with comfort, Nuala," Starrett replied, eyeing his
baked beans and sticking a serviette into the V of his blue jumper.
And I would have thought that with your title 'Bean Gharda', you'd
nave at least a few mouthfuls of these little balls of energy on that lonely
looking toast of yours."
"Yes, Inspector," Francis Casey said as he squared up to his sausage,
bacon, eggs, potato cakes and tomatoes, "even if it's pronounced 'bean
and not 'ban'."
Nuala Gibson shot Casey a "he-knows-already" glance, trying hard
to conceal her annoyance at Casey for coming so unnecessarily to her

aid.
"That's not to mention the fact that the service officially dropped
the term years ago," Casey continued unperturbed. "We're one of the
few teams I know who still use it."
"Respect," Starrett said. "It's just a mark of respect."
Of course, Starrett knew the Irish language as well as he knew
English, but he felt that a touch of banter around the table, particularly
after what they'd just witnessed, might clear their heads and better set
them up for the busy days ahead. As he looked around the plates, he
noted that, aside from Gibson's, the scene up in the Second Federation
Church certainly hadn't dented their appetites. He'd also clocked from
Gibson's and Casey's exchanged look that there was definitely something
going on there. They made an unlikely couple in that Francis was
quite a bit shorter than Nuala. He added to his height with a thick head
of dark brown hair in what could only be described as a Caucasian version
of a polite Afro-cut. Casey wasn't what you'd call handsome, but
neither was he what you'd call ugly. He was well-mannered and ambitious,
maybe just a wee bit too ambitious. Starrett felt that there was
only so much he could teach his team, and he knew that the majority
of their successes would come from their working from their own
instincts, and that was something that took time to nurture. Starrett
had the feeling that perhaps Francis Casey's true vocation lay more in
administration and research than on the front line.
Nuala was a little heavier and, overall, bigger than Casey, but in an
attractive way. While in uniform she never wore make-up, but she
scrubbed up well once off duty.
At this stage, the cafe was packed and abuzz with numerous conversations.
At one table, Starrett noted a regular, Dermot Dunne, who
was, as ever, bending some unsuspecting single farmer's ear about how
great a time he'd had in England. Dermot had been in London for most
of the 1980s and 1990s and had had a newspaper stall outside Camden
Town tube station for most of that time. He was always keen to enthuse
to all who would listen, and even a few who wouldn't, about how wonderful
it had been "across the water" and how great the people were and
how Alan Bennett, Julian Clary, Christy Kennedy, Sean Connery,
Barbara Windsor, Boy George and Gerry Rafferty had all been regulars
of his. Starrett often wondered if, during his twenty-odd years in
London, Dermot had spent his time over there telling everyone who'd
listen how great it all was over in Donegal, and how, as a barber, he'd
cut the heads of Daniel O'Donnell, Pat Kenny, Charlie Haughey, Jackie
Charlton and Phil Coulter. Maybe an acute case of the other man's
grass always being greener, particularly, Starrett acknowledged, when
the man in question resided in County Donegal.
Gibson and Garvey were deep in conversation about the whys and
wherefores of crucifixions and theories as to why someone would want
to kill a victim in such a way. Moore may have been married. There
was a paler ring of skin on his wedding finger where a wedding band
might have been recently removed. They wondered how his wife would
take the news when they eventually tracked her down. Garda Casey
looked to Starrett as if he were slightly uncomfortable being excluded
from Gibson and Garvey's conversation, so the inspector turned to him
and, in a discreet whisper, said, "What can you tell me about that family
at the table by the door?"
Francis washed down a generous mouthful of eggs and toast with
a draft of coffee, dabbed around his mouth with his serviette and said,
"Well, for one thing, they've never been in here before. They're probably
tourists."
"Good; how can you tell?" Starrett asked. He encouraged his team
to examine every situation they encountered in the greatest detail. He
wanted them, both on and off duty, to be on the look-out for information
others might miss. For instance, it wouldn't have been enough for
Casey to justify his strangers' claim by saying that he'd never seen them
before.
"Well, they sat nearest the door. It's probably the worst table in the
cafe, but it would have been the most inviting one to them as they came
in."
"Anything else?" Starrett asked. Gibson had stopped talking mid
sentence, now showing interest in Starrett and Casey's conversation and
the objects of their attention.
"Well, the adults keep looking around the walls at the posters and
stuff, and none of the locals who've come in have spoken to them,"
Casey offered.
"Yep, good, good, and?"
Casey seemed stumped, and this time it was Gibson who
spoke up.
"There's something contradictory about the man and woman's
open fondness for each other. You'd think that after four children the
novelty might have worn off."
"Not necessarily," Casey protested.
"No, Nuala's got a good point," Starrett said. "The couple may be
married, but not in fact to each other."
Now Packie Garvey was trying to steal discreet glances at the table
under investigation. "How can you tell that?
"Well, the two boys call her 'mammy, but they call him by some
name I can't make out. The two girls call him 'daddy', but they call her
Patricia, and none of the children are bickering with or teasing each
other, which in a family of six would be an absolute impossibility."
"What else have you picked up, Inspector?" Nuala Gibson asked,
genuinely impressed.
"Well, I'd say they're moving here or hereabouts. He, like our Mr
James Moore, is a carpenter, and at least the man and the two girls are
from Sligo."
"Sorry?" Gibson said, shaking her head in disbelief.
"OK," Starrett said, thoroughly enjoying himself. "Their Volvo
estate car is parked over on the corner of Castle Street, the number plate
is 01 SO 461, telling me their car is a 2001 model and they are from
Sligo. There is a serious amount of luggage packed in the back, which
points to them moving house. They couldn't have driven from Sligo
this morning, so they must have spent the night somewhere close by.
They wouldn't have stopped off here, great and all as Steve's is, if they
weren't close to, or at, their actual destination. Then there's a toolbox
and various saws and other larger tools visible in the back."
"And how do you know it's his car?" Packie asked.
"It's badly parked," Starrett replied. "As in, it's disgracefully parked,
and a woman would never ever park a car that poorly for fear people
would think badly of her."
"Right then," Starrett announced after a pause. "Breakfast's on me,
and I'll see you down in the station in a few minutes. Packie, you and
I will head over and see Betsy Bell and then Eileen McLaughlin."
Starrett paid the bill, made his way over to the family by the door
and introduced himself.
"Hello, I'm Ivor Gallagher and this is Patricia," the man said, rising
and taking Starrett's offered hand. "This is Paddy and Jack and
Roisin and Dolores."
"You folks new to town, or are you just passing through?" Starrett
enquired as he pulled up a seat and sat down beside them.
"We've just moved here," Patricia said smiling, and smiling even
more when she added: "This morning, in fact."
"Well, welcome to Ramelton," Starrett said, returning the smile.
"You fixed up with a place to stay?"
"Yes, we bought the wee house down Castle Street on the right
hand side," Declan said. "Our furniture doesn't arrive until this
afternoon."
"Right, would that be the teacher's house with the original boot
scraper by the front door?" Starrett asked.
"Aye, that's us," Ivor replied proudly.
"Congratulations, good health to you all," Starrett said. "I don't
mean to be nosy or anything, but I noticed that you're a carpenter and,
well, there's always lots of work around here for good tradesmen."
"Thanks, I'm all fixed up. My uncle has plenty of building work in
Letterkenny, and he wants me to get started as soon as I can."
"Ach, yes, the Boom Town," Starrett sighed. "The Klondyke had
nothing on the Letterkenny boyos; but instead of prospectors,
Letterkenny is infested with developers. You'll be fine then. It's going
to be a great time until the gold runs out up there. Look, I just wanted
to welcome you here; I know the first few days in a new town can be
stressful. You will be fine here, though. Ramelton is a nice wee town,
the people are warm, and you'll be made welcome. Here's my number.
If you ever need anything, just give me a shout. I'm based at Tower
House, the big building in Gamble's Square at the foot of Bridge Street.
Its on the right, just by the river. You can't miss it."
"Why, thank you," Patricia said, visibly moved at Starrett's
welcome.
Starrett wanted to know everyone in the town and equally he wanted
them to know him. As he walked out of Steve's, he wondered if they
would ever need to use the telephone number he'd just given them.

Chapter Six





TEN MINUTES LATER, Starrett and Garvey were rattling over the
noisy manhole covers that marked the road towards
Rathmullan.
"Handy enough, those loose covers," Starrett said. "They're loud
enough to wake even the back-section passenger of a hearse."
Starrett loved driving out on this road. His car was a black BMW,
which sounded grander than it actually was. Tommy Adams at the
Bridge Garage had souped up the engine so that it passed everything
bar a petrol station, and Starrett's number plate--00 DL 7--was well
known about the county. For most of the short journey from Ramelton
to Rathmullan, one had sight of the glory of Lough Swilly. In Starrett's
case, this could prove to be an extremely dangerous distraction on what
was a tricky road to navigate at the best of times. Even after all these
years, he never tired of the natural beauty of the lough and the various
mountain ranges that surrounded it. Garvey found it easier to close his
eyes and keep his fingers crossed rather than endure the usual white
knuckle ride.
"I hope her ladyship is receiving visitors," Starrett announced as
they pulled up outside a light-blue 1970s-style dormer bungalow,
roughly four miles from Ramelton.
Betsy Bell didn't quite have a lough view--not unless she was prepared
to balance on the tip of the aerial attached to her chimney stack.
She did, however, have a busy, well-stocked garden, packed with nooks
and crannies. For a fifty-three-year-old widow's garden, it was
remarkably well taken care of. Betsy herself was also remarkably well
preserved, if a tad inappropriately dressed.
She greeted Starrett and Garvey dressed in a light blue, waisted
jacket and short matching skirt. Starrett firmly believed that nobody
should ever wear any item of clothing that wasn't pleasant to the touch.
The material in Widow Bell's suit looked about as agreeable in this
regard as an industrial carpet. He could never work out what motivated
women in their choice of style. Was it their priority to look great, or
simply to appear different? Betsy Bell certainly looked different. People
around Donegal rarely experienced the sun for long enough to take
their jackets off, let along cultivate a tan; but Betsy's canned colouring,
it's worth noting, favoured more of a farmer's weather
beaten look than a glow achieved on the French Riviera.
For all that, she had great dignity and poise, and Starrett was convinced
that were she asked to walk from here to Ramelton with a stack
of telephone directories on her head, she could easily have accomplished
the task.
Greetings and salutations over, the inspector said, "Betsy, I wonder
if we could have a chat with you about a gentleman who did some work
for you, a Mr James Moore?"
"Why, yes, Inspector, come on in . . . Why don't both of you come
on in?" she said in a pitch high enough to hit the highest notes
required of a choir. Her accent sounded as if she'd started life in
County Derry but had spent much of the intervening years travelling
the world.
Her home was too cluttered and a bit too old-fashioned for
Starrett's taste, but it was spotless. He wondered if the fussy decor and
furnishings had anything at all to do with the fact that she lived alone.
Betsy Bell led them to the back of the house, through the kitchen,
to a small but perfectly formed conservatory. Here the two policemen
settled into comfortable wickerwork armchairs arranged around a glass
coffee table, which displayed a coffee pot and a lone cup and saucer.
"I was just about to have my elevenses," said Betsy over her shoulder,
as she nipped back into the kitchen. She returned a heartbeat later
with two additional cups and saucers. "Coffee OK?"
"Perfect," Starrett said. Betsy played mammy and poured a cup of
coffee for them all.
Starrett took a sip. "I understand you had James Moore in here to
do some carpentry work for you?"
"Why, yes," Betsy said, sitting down and offering them each a
Jacob's Mikado. "My bespoke kitchen is James' handiwork."
Starrett was trying to find his way out of this Miss Marple moment.
"Look, Betsy, I think I'd better tell you . . . James, well, he was
found dead this morning ..."
The Miss Marple instantly disappeared as Betsy Bell let out an
almighty scream and dropped her coffee cup and contents all over her
skirt.
"Dead?" she eventually uttered, a look of total shock on her face.
"I'm afraid so."
"An accident?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Not an accident?" Betsy whispered, regaining some of her composure
as she dashed back into the kitchen, presumably to mop down
her sopping skirt, and yelled, "What on earth happened? Heart attack?
Stroke?"
"Betsy, all I can tell you at this time is that he died in mysterious
circumstances."
"Is that garda-speak for he was murdered?"
"Betsy," Starrett said, choosing to ignore Betsy's previous question,
"we don't know anything about Mr Moore, and First Minister
Morrison told us you'd recommended him to Mrs Morrison."
"Yes, yes, of course, they wanted to re-shelve their study," she
answered. "But I don't see how ..."
"Well," Starrett continued, "for a start, do you have his address and
telephone number?"
"Why, yes, of course," she replied, still looking like someone about
to submit to the dentist. "He lives . . . lived ... in the wee house next
to the Downings Bay Hotel."
Again she darted back into her kitchen, and they could hear her go
up the back staircase, and walk across the room above them. She
returned calling out a telephone number, which Packie dutifully
recorded in his notebook.
Once she'd returned to the room, Starrett asked, "And what about
a family?"
"A family?" Betsy said, looking noticeably more twitchy.
"Yes," Starrett said quickly. "What can you tell us about his family?"
"Ahm, let's see . . . he had a wife and, I believe, three children."
"And do you have a number for them?"
"Yes, well, I mean, I've got Jimmy's number, too. I'll get you that."
"How long did it take him to complete your kitchen?" Packie
asked. Starrett was pleased: that was going to be his next question.
"Let's see now; I'd say he was here on and off for about four months
or so. I mean, you know what builders are like; they keep disappearing
to finish other jobs. There's always a great first week, and you start to
think it's going to take less time and less upheaval than you expected,
but all they're doing is lulling you into a false sense of security. Even so,
at the end, when all the work is done, you look back on it and realise
it was worth all the grief. Anyway, I'd say the whole job took four
months max."
"Are you and Mrs Morrison good friends?" Starrett asked, changing
direction and, he hoped, gear.
"Oh," she laughed, "Mandy and I go way back. I went to Queen's
University with her older sister."
"Do you see much of each other?"
"Oh yes, Mandy and Eileen, that's Eileen McLaughlin--she lives
in Ramelton, too--we meet up a lot. If Eileen and I ever manage to get
Mandy interested in golf, we might as well all move in together. Tell
me, Inspector, what did Jimmy die of?"
"Sorry, Betsy. I'm afraid we can't release that information yet."
"Surely you can tell me if he would have suffered in the end," she
continued. Starrett felt as if she were trying to get him to reassure her.
"Ah, Betsy, no demise is entirely pleasurable," Starrett replied with
a sigh. "But mmm, look, when Mr Moore was here working for you,
did he ever talk about himself, about his life?"
"Well, Inspector, Jimmy was a great listener, but he never really said
much about himself."
"Betsy, help me here, please," Starrett pleaded. "The man was here
for four months; he worked for you and your best friends for possibly
another eight months between them . . . I'm just guessing here, but if
we take that as a minimum, that means he was in your life for at least
a year. Now if Packie here and myself and say another of our mates had
a woman working in our lives for that time, we'd be rabbiting on and
on about whatever bits of information we had picked up on her."
Betsy smiled, showing off her green eyes properly for the first time
since they had arrived. She flicked her eyelashes a few times before
replying coyly, "Boys will be boys, but girls never ever tell."
"None the less," Starrett laughed, "the reason for my asking is not
a search for gossip, but rather to gather information for a murder investigation."
"Oh
my goodness, Jimmy was murdered," Betsy exclaimed, the
cent finally dropping.
"Yes, Betsy, and we desperately need your help. At the minute,
you're the only person we've spoken to who had any contact with him."
Betsy took another couple of sips of her coffee, fluttered her eyelids
a few more times, looked to the floor, glanced up to the sky. For all
the world she looked like a contestant on Mastermind, faced with a particularly
thorny question. Eventually, eyes glued to her stained pine
floor, she answered, "I think you'll find that Mandy Morrison knew
him a little better than Eileen and I did."

Chapter Seven


SHOULD WE HEAD over to Downings?" Garvey asked, once he
and his boss were back in the car.
"Yes, we should," Starrett agreed, not particularly relishing
his duty at the other end of the journey. The radio speaker erupted in
a loud crackling noise. "Ah, the tide's going out down at Portsalon,"
Starrett laughed, disengaging the gearstick. "Either that or the station
house is trying to get us on the two-way. Jeez, Packie, all this modern
technology and we still have to use radio gear left over from Michael
Collins' days."
He rang into the garda station on his own mobile. There were two
messages for him. The first was from his boss, Major Newton
Cunningham, who, hardly surprisingly, wanted to see him as soon as
possible, and the second was from Maggie Keane.
"Did you take her call yourself?" Starrett asked the station operator.
"Yes, Inspector Starrett."
"And what did she say?"
"She said she wanted you to ring her."
"OK," Starrett replied, "but can you tell me exactly what she said?"
"She said, well, first she asked to speak to you and then, when I
told her you were out, she said, 'Could you have him ring me?' and
then she said, 'Tell him it's kind of urgent.' Then she said, 'No, don't
tell him that; just tell him that I'd like him to ring me.' "
"Did she sound like she was . . . OK? Worried? Stressed?"
"Inspector Starrett, my switchboard is lighting up like a Christmas

tree. Maggie Keane would like you to ring her, maybe sooner rather
than later, OK? Can I go now?"
"Yes, yes, of course . . . sorry," Starrett said, breaking off the call.
Excusing himself to Garvey, he turned off the engine, got out of the
car, and dialled the number the operator has passed on.
"Starrett?" a voice said at the other end.
"Maggie, are you OK?"
"I'm fine, Starrett. I need a favour please."
"Name it, Maggie."
"It's my mother; she's in a right state."
"What's happened to her?"
"OK, there were these men working at the house next door to her,
and one day one of them, a well-dressed man who had an official
looking pass, came to her and claimed that the people next door, you
know the McGraths, were going to great expense to have a gas line
brought up to their house from the new gas main. Anyway, this man-- who was dressed in clean blue overalls each time my mam met him-- said that sometimes, behind the gas board's back, they took a gas feed
off the main line to service older people's houses .
"Such as your mother's," Starrett prompted, fearful of where this
might be going.
"'Such as my mother's," Maggie agreed, before continuing. "They
said for €895--which was the cost (and not a cent more) of the raw
materials and for digging the ditch--my mam could enjoy a lifetime supply
of gas. He also assured my mother that her neighbours wouldn't suffer
in any way. The only condition was that she tell no one."
"Maggie!" Starrett said in exasperation down the telephone line.
"She's seventy-seven years old, Starrett, and €895 is less than her
annual oil bill."
"So she paid the money and never saw them again?" Starrett said,
now trying to sound sympathetic.
"No, actually they dug a deep ditch and spent a day laying a pipe.
Then they connected up the pipe to my mam's cooker and boiler, and
the bootleg supply actually worked."
"Wow!"
"A week later, the gas supply ran down."
"Ach!"
"The problem was that they had disconnected my mam's normal
supply of oil, so she was without her cooker for a few days before she
plucked up the courage to go up to the neighbours' house. It transpired
that it wasn't a gas supply her neighbours were having fitted, it was a
new sewage tank, and the bogus team was only using the legit team's
work as a smoke screen. Eventually my mam had to swallow her pride
and call out the council. They dug up the ditch and found the new gas
line connected to nothing other than a Calor Gas cylinder."
"And it had run empty?" Starrett asked, wondering what he
could do.
"I know this is not your usual area, Starrett," Maggie continued,
"but my mam was out for a drive this morning, and she thinks she saw
the same team at work."
"That's very unusual; these boyos don't usually work the same
patch."
"No, not around here. My mam drove down to the Glebe Gallery
in Churchill. She just loves Derek Hill's work and goes down there at
least once a year for the tour. Anyway, just outside Glendowan, she
passed a van she recognised. She doubled back, and eventually she saw
the man with the clean blue overalls again."
"Where's she now?"
"She's back in the tea room at the Glebe Gallery."
"OK, Maggie, have her wait there. I'll have someone pick her up
in about ten minutes, and she can show them where the lads are."
"Hey, thanks, Starrett."
"Thank you, Maggie, and thanks to your mam. These scam merchants
are usually long gone before they're reported to us. With a bit
of luck, we'll catch them in the act this time."
"How are you, Starrett?"
"I'm fine, Maggie. Look, I really do need to go and get a few of the
locals set up . . ."
"Sorry, sorry, and thanks again Starrett..." And she disconnected
before the inspector even had a chance to say goodbye properly.
"Right, Packie," Starrett said as he climbed back into his car and
started the engine, "let's mosey on over to Downings and see James
Moore's family."

Chapter Eight



THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Starrett and Garvey were knocking on
the door of James Moore's home over in Downings, the holiday-home
heaven--or hell (depending on your point of
view)--of Donegal.
Still preoccupied by his conversation with Maggie Keane, whom
he'd not heard from in nearly two decades, Starrett was startled when a
woman who looked old enough to have been James Moore's mother
opened the door. In fact--in response to the presentation of their ID
cards--she introduced herself as Nora, his wife. She then wiped her
hands on a tea towel for what seemed like ages before offering a hand
to Starrett and Garvey in turn.
Nora Moore honoured one of Donegal's golden rules--"Never
keep the gardai standing on your doorstep"--by immediately inviting
the two members of the Guardians of the Peace into her house.
The Moores' home was single storey and over a hundred years old,
and Starrett assumed that it had been James Moore who had lovingly
restored it to its former glory and beyond. Starrett, who loved houses,
particularly old ones, knew that during the restoration process, many
owners opted for the stripped-wood look which would have indicated
a shortage of funds on the part of the original builder or owner. Back
then, the majority of people would have ensured that all surfaces were
covered by paint (if not wallpaper) to brighten it up a bit and also to
protect the surfaces for as long as possible, even if it meant going as far
as mixing the remains of numerous tins of varying colours of paint. The
owners of this particular cottage had shown a preference for natural
National Trust colours and varnishes. The result was a particularly
warm and cosy feel, coupled with a lived-in family look.
Nora Moore led them through to the kitchen-dining-sitting-room
space, which Starrett presumed James Moore had knocked through
into one room. The walls were absolutely packed to overflowing with
family photographs, paintings and posters--one of Rathmullan House
and one a Guinness advertisement. If the ageing of the paper was anything
to go by and this was an original poster, Starrett reckoned it was
worth at least €1,000. He was saddened to see photographs of Nora
and the man he had seen on a cross a matter of a few hours ago together
with, if he wasn't mistaken, two sons and a younger daughter, the
children Betsy Bell had mentioned.
"What can I do for you, Inspector?" Nora asked, continuing to
wipe her hands nervously.
Starrett walked over and put his hand across Nora's shoulders.
Before she, clearly embarrassed, had a chance to shake free of him, he
felt through her dark brown cardigan that there wasn't much more to
her than skin and bone. She couldn't have had an ounce above seven
stone, he thought, on her five-foot-five frame. To Starrett, she looked
more like a worrier than someone with an eating disorder. She was
dressed in what were generally referred to as "clothes suitable only for
the house". Her mismatch of browns and greys--apron, cardigan, skirt,
tights and faded canvas shoes--fitted in so well with her persona that
they looked like a second skin. Her grey hair was unkempt but clean,
and she didn't wear a trace of make-up.
"Nora," Starrett began, as Garvey looked on self-consciously,
"come over and sit down beside me here at your grand table."
In that split second, the look in her eyes changed, and she semi
stumbled in the direction of the table, still not allowing Starrett any
physical contact. She leaned against the table, both her hands spreading
out in an arc from her body. Her fingers busily found the table's
numerous scars, and she read them like braille: a deeply engraved set of
initials, CM; a four-inch straight line where a sharp bread knife had
obviously missed its target; a sector of wood, like a generous portion of
an apple tart, where her husband had expertly replaced the original
antique timber after a few too many knocks; hot-saucepan stains;
teacup stains; puttied nailless holes; a couple of places where knots of
wood had simply dropped out, creating one-inch-diameter holes. There
were even several depressions marked by blacked stains on the wood
where cigarette butts had been left unattended for a few seconds too
many. Perhaps the offender had just nipped off to the toilet. Hey, perhaps
they'd even gone to answer the door to be confronted by two
members of the gardai who had also arrived out of the blue with news.
Well, in truth, Starrett knew that no one had ever delivered news such
as he was about to give Mrs Nora Moore.
As Nora's fingers ran out of distractions, she sank deeply into a
chair and whispered, "It's Jimmy, isn't it?"
Starrett crunched his chin into its socket.
When confronted with potentially devastating news, survivors of
the recently departed never realise how much of a gift they are giving
the unfortunate messenger when they offer such a question.
"Yes."
"Ach, no," Nora cried out loudly. "Ach no, no, not poor Jimmy."
Starrett moved closer to her and placed his hand back on her shoulder.
His bent forefinger formed a bizarre hanging hook on her back.
This time she did not recoil from his offer of comfort. Instead she
fell limp and wailed like a banshee.
Starrett feared she would fall off her chair. He turned her
tearstained face to him and pulled her towards his own chest. She
recoiled slightly and pumped her fists against his chest.
He knew her anger was not directed at him but at a fate which had
cheated her of the man who had persuaded her to put her life on hold
in deference to her children, and at a society which had robbed her of
all of her dreams and made her scrimp and slave and save for a better
life for her, her husband and her family; a world that had promised that
eventually, just down the line, maybe right around the corner, things
would get better. Now, as she hammered away for all her might on
Starrett's chest, she knew that her life would never get better ever again.
She knew that just as sure as she knew that her husband was dead. She
knew that she had, in effect, died as well. The main difference between
her and her husband was that she'd have to remain in this state of purgatory
for another five, ten, twenty, maybe even--if God really hated
her--another thirty years.
But even in all of her despair, her punches couldn't injure Starrett
because, as had been proved to be the case with everything else in her
life, God hadn't equipped her properly to achieve her goal.
Starrett told Garvey to phone for a doctor. He arrived and
sedated Mrs Nora Moore, offering a brief release from her pain and
desolation.
As he did so, members of the local gardai visited three separate
schools and brought fifteen-year-old Chris Moore, fourteen-year-old
Claudia Moore and ten-year-old Brian Moore back to the family home
to hear the heartbreaking news, and to comfort their mother and each
other.

Chapter Nine





ALTHOUGH STARRETT HAD waited at the Moore house until all
the children arrived home, he'd fully intended to leave them
alone together and visit them later that day or early the following
morning. It would be at least twenty-four hours before he
would be able to have any conversation with Nora Moore.
But Chris Moore, the eldest of the three and the first to arrive
home, proved to be a remarkable young man. As Chris was told the
news about his father, Starrett thought he could see him physically
grow in stature as he automatically and immediately fell into the role
of family leader. He excused himself from Starrett and went to see his
mother. When his brother Brian, followed a few minutes later by
Claudia, arrived home, he took them to one side, broke the news and
immediately set them tasks: Claudia to take care of their mother and
Brian to finish off their mother's chores.
"How can I help you, Inspector?" Chris finally asked.
The inspector studied the teenager. He looked so much like his
father he could have been a younger brother. He had short brown hair,
brown eyes and an inquisitive face. Nora Moore had definitely turned
her children out well. They were all clean as buttons and dressed in
proper school uniform.
"Well, Chris," Starrett began cautiously, "the more I can learn
about your father, the better the chance we have of finding out who
was responsible. That's my priority, but I can accept it may not be your
priority at this stage."

"I can see that," Chris replied, sounding very earnest, "and I would really like to try to help you."
"OK, good," Starrett said. "Let's you and me go for a wee walk on
the beach, and we'll have a chat about your dad."
Three minutes later, they were walking north along the shoreline
with the holiday-home camp banked up on their right. Chris Moore
seemed content just to walk along in silence, deep in his own thoughts.
Starrett wondered why everyone was so attracted to the sea, and he
wondered how many times James Moore had walked this beach, either by himself or with members of his family. His workshop, at the back
of their house, afforded him a great view of the beach, and Starrett pondered
whether he'd done much of his thinking, wishing, dreaming and
planning while looking out on the Atlantic Ocean. The inspector wondered
whether every wood shaving James had planed from a piece of
timber and every nail he had driven felt like it had brought him a few
micro-metres closer to achieving his goals. What were his goals?
Relatively speaking, Starrett was enjoying his walk with Chris
Moore, who remained silent. What had it felt like to be James Moore?
What had driven him? Starrett imagined him in his workshop, working
away, perhaps with one of his children keeping him company and
asking questions. Was he ambitious? Did he take pride in his work, or
was it a means to an end? A way he knew he could make money to support
his family?
And what of Nora Moore? What had happened that had made him
available to Mrs Amanda Morrison?
"My mam hasn't always been like this, you know," Chris said,
breaking their silence.
"Aye," Starrett said, "it's not easy bringing up a family these days."
"Have you any children?" the young Moore asked.
"I'm not married, Chris," Starrett replied, looking off into the distance.
"Have
you ever been?"
"Ah, nope."
"Ever wanted to be?"
"I'd have to say, yes, there was a time when I wanted to be married."
"Just the once?" the boy continued, starting to sound like Gay
Byrne's natural successor.
"Yes, Chris, just the once."
"A long time ago?"
"Aye, a long time ago," Starrett sighed. He was now distracted from
his own questioning, thinking instead of that very long time ago.
"What happened?"
"Well now, I was young and I felt there was something else I had
to do, and by the time I realised that I'd nothing else I really needed to
do, I'd ruined what I had . . . if you get my drift."
"I think I do, but you've still got a great career," Chris offered.
"Well, not the same career actually. The garda work came later, and
I really do enjoy what I do, so I guess one out of two isn't a bad batting
average."
"Fifty per cent success rate," Chris Moore offered.
"Bejeepers," Starrett said, snapping out of his mindset. "When you
put it that way, it's not really a result to be boasting about. Tell me,
Chris, do you have a girlfriend?"
Instead of the customary embarrassed teenage reply, Chris said,
"Well, I have a great friend, yes, and obviously we're too young, but
we're both hoping it will develop into something. It's kind of difficult
though, you know, when you're good friends and you feel something
for somebody, but inside you're very scared in case you grow apart
through no fault of your own. We talk a lot about it, though, so you
never know."
Chris Moore appeared to remember suddenly exactly why he was
out walking on the beach, and the smile that had started to move across
his sharp features faded into a frown.
"Well, Chris, all I can tell you, and the only thing I have learned in
my life, is that you should never ever put anything before your relationships,
and I'm not talking just about romantic relationships."

"I agree, Inspector, and if anything, the older society gets, the more
important human relationships should become," Chris said, appearing
hopeful, but then adding: "But sadly, that's not proving to be the case,
is it?"
"Oh, I don't know, I've got a lot of young people working in my
team, and I can tell you, I'm mightily impressed by their human
commitment."
"Ach, good," the lad replied. "My dad and my mam always taught
us to look after each other. My dad was always saying how easy it is to
have enough money, but how difficult it is to have enough friends. My
dad thought that 'enough money' was when you had sufficient to
clothe, feed and house your family. My mam . . ."--and here he sighed
in the same way an older man might--"... was much more ambitious.
I think it was her ambitions and the conflict they created between the
two of them that finally did her nervous system in."
They were getting close to the water's edge. Starrett steered them
further up the beach.
"Look, Inspector, I didn't mean that my mam and dad were always
fighting; they weren't in fact. It's just that they were both coming from
totally different points of view. My father was preoccupied with where
the sun rose and how that fact impacted on our house, whereas my
mam was desperate to get beautiful material for curtains."
"How long were they married?"
"Fourteen years," Chris replied immediately. Starrett did the
maths, which put Nora in her mid-thirties at best. If Starrett had been
asked to guess her age, he would have sprung for early to mid-fifties.
"Do you know how they met?" Starrett continued. He knew that
the best chance he had of accumulating important information was not
by asking important questions, but by asking questions, which unconsciously
released vital details.
"They met at a party my Aunt Peggy--she's my mam's elder
sister--was giving over in Portrush where she was on holidays. My dad
is from Coleraine and my mam is from Cranford, but she always loved
Downings when she was growing up and always dreamed of living here.
It is beautiful," Chris said, turning around 360 degrees, yet still keeping
pace with Starrett. "But outside of the summer, not a lot happens
here. Do you like music, Inspector?"
"Yes, I do. At least, I think I do."
"You think you do?" Chris Moore repeated, scrunching up his eyebrows.
"Let
me explain ... I have a colleague who positively loves music,
she absolutely lives for it, so when you ask me do I like music, I'm
tempted to compare my interest in music to hers and . . . well, quite
frankly, I have to admit, it's really that I can take it or leave it."
"And when you can take it, who do you like to listen to?"
"Well, I've got a confession to make to you here, Chris," Starrett
began, "I don't even have a CD player. I've never bought a CD in my
life. I'm still a vinyl man myself, so that pretty much dictates whom I
listen to. For me, the governor is Neil Diamond. I don't mind Frank
Sinatra either. I used to go and see Rory Gallagher's band, Taste, live;
he never really got it down on record, but in concert he was something
else--a Donegal man, you know?"
"Really?"
"Yeah, Ballyshannon," Starrett replied, offering up the answer to
the only pub quiz pop question he was capable of answering. "And
yourself, what's your taste in music?"
"I like Killers and Damian Rice, big time. But anyway, what I
meant to say back then was that there is not really a lot to do around
here, apart from listening to music."
"Did your dad listen to much music?" Starrett asked
"He's a bunch of Planxty, and Simon and Garfunkel CDs, but he
rarely listens to anything other than traditional music. My mam has
stuff like Dexy's Midnight Runners and Soft Cell. I'm not sure she really
likes it, though, because she never plays any of her cassettes. Anyway,
my parents met at Aunty Peggy's party. My dad was doing some work
for an ex of Peggy's, and he tagged along with a workmate. Dad and
Mam spent the whole evening walking the North Strand in Portrush-- and talking. My dad was a bit of a hippie in those days. My mam liked
him immediately. They used to joke that it was she who pursued him.
When I was younger, they'd rib each other about it, but from what I
can gather, it was my mother who caught my father."
"The other side of that is that some people are just waiting around
to be caught, if you know what I mean," Starrett suggested.
"Well, whatever way it worked, my dad proposed. They were married
a few months later, and six months after that I was born. We lived
with my mother's parents for the first two years of my life. Both my
parents were out working all the time, but they still managed to have
Claudia a year after I was born. My dad was a self-employed handyman
and had all the work he could handle. We moved out of my grandparents'
house and moved into the house back there. My dad spent a lot
of time refurbishing it over the years, room by room. I was five years
old and Claudia was four when Brian was born.
"My dad finished work on the house about four years ago, and then
converted the outhouse into his workshop. He began to be much more
selective over what work he accepted, and then he put his prices up. He
wasn't really comfortable doing it, but eventually he saw the sense and
started making more money. My mam, God bless her, fell ill with a terrible
flu about three years ago, and she's never been the same since. The
four of us try to help her as much as she'll let us, but she's terribly sensitive.
I tell her she's clinically depressed and she should do something
about it, but she just laughs it off, saying she's much too busy to be
clinically depressed. She thinks that clinical depression is for rich folks."
"Does your dad have many friends?" Starrett asked.
"A few, ahm ... Colm Donovan, they used to work on jobs together;
and then there's Daniel McGuinness. Dan is probably his oldest
friend; they used to work together. He's the mate my dad would go to
things with; Dan's a big man. He's always around here. Then there's my
uncle Dolphie, Dolphie Cowan, Aunty Peggy's husband. My dad and
Dolphie get on like a house on fire at family do's." Chris Moore
stopped talking and stopped walking at the exact same moment.
He stood frozen to the spot for a few moments as tears gently trickled
down his cheeks. Starrett stretched out a hand, rested it on the boy's
shoulder and gently patted it a few times.
Chris Moore broke the stalemate, walking and talking at exactly
the same moment. Starrett's hand fell unobtrusively back to his side.
"Inspector Starrett, can you tell me why anyone would want to kill
my father?"
"We don't have an idea, Chris. That's what I have to find out."
"But," said Chris, sighing a long sigh. "I mean ... it's my dad we're
talking about here. He was a hippie; he'd never hurt anyone; he'd never
steal money; he'd never be involved in a hit and run; he'd never be a
member of an illegal organisation; he'd never get drunk and fall down;
he'd never even illegally park his car; he paid his taxes; he never did cash
jobs, it was always on the books. He was always telling me and my
brother and sister, 'Never ever do anything that results in your having
to look over your shoulder all the time.' He'd say that it just wasn't
worth taking the risk to make an extra few euros. You're wasting your
life and your energy. And, of course, he was right, but then you have
to say, look where it got him. Inspector, what do you think happened?"
"You know, Chris, maybe he was just in the wrong place at the
wrong time," Starrett offered, using the suggestion as fuel for his next
question: "Do you know what work he was doing recently?"
"I'll show you," Chris replied enthusiastically, quickening his step
and leading them back towards his house. When they were about a
hundred yards away, he said quietly, "Inspector Starrett, I'd appreciate
it if you'd not mention my blubbering on the beach just then. I need
to be strong for the others."
"Hey, you know what, Chris, there's a pretty strong wind out there,
and sometimes I've been known to catch a grain of sand in the eye
myself."

Chapter Ten



AS CHRIS MOORE led Starrett into his father's workshop, the
incredibly rich aromas, a blend of various woods, glue, paint,
varnish, and James Moore's own sweat, all combined to hit the
inspector smack in his nostrils the minute he stepped through the door.
The room was much larger than the detective had imagined, but as
Starrett had correctly assumed, it had an amazing view of the beach
through a large picture window. To the right of this was James Moore's
workbench, with two vices and a very tidy rack of tools collected on the
wall above it. On the opposite side of the room was a stash of wood of
varying sizes and types, and against the entrance wall was the carpenter's
current work-in-progress: a project he was destined never to finish.
Starrett spent a few moments studying what looked like a broad,
upside-down bath--either that, or an extremely ornate boat minus one
end. After a few seconds, during which Starrett had mentally stood the
piece up on its end, he realised that it was a grand pulpit of some kind.
The construction, with all its intricate carvings and inlays, was a fine
testament to a master carpenter.
"Bejeepers," Starrett said in wide-eyed amazement. "This is certainly
a beautiful piece of work."
"Yes," Chris Moore replied, the pride evident in his voice. "He was
very proud of it."
"Do you know who commissioned it?"
"I think it was for that Second Federation Church over in
Ramelton. He's been doing some work for them recently. You know, for
that American-styled religion that won't let people into the church
unless they're kitted out in their Sunday best. No sports gear in there,
I can tell you."
"Do you know anything else about them? Was your father a member?"
"My
father didn't subscribe to any religion, unlike my mam who
worships at the local church. My father said we kids should worship
there until we were old enough to make up our own minds. I don't
know anything about the Second Federation, apart from their clothes
rule, and once my dad told me that he thought they believed that their
power came from sticking together. Do you know much about them
yourself, Inspector?"
"No, not a lot," Starrett sighed. "But I'm beginning to feel it's
about time I did a bit of research in their general direction. Tell me,
Chris, when did you last see your dad?"
"At dinner last night. Then he went out. I knew he didn't go out
to the workshop because I checked, but I assumed he was out working
and he'd left for work before I got up this morning."
"Do you remember what your father was wearing when he left
home yesterday evening?"
"He always dressed the same: denim jeans, a blue denim shirt and
a T-shirt and a pair of yellow steel-capped Timberland boots. Unless it
was very cold, he'd always wear the denim shirt open over his trousers."
"Anything else you can tell me about what he was wearing, you
know, anything really distinctive?" Starrett asked.
"Erm, well, my brother and sister and I bought him two shirts just
alike. They had little brass buttons with the letters 'Levi' embossed on
them."
"Good, anything else?" Starrett pushed.
"Not really," Chris said slowly, "unless maybe his belt?"
"Yes?"
"Well, he really loved his belt," Chris said. "It was a genuine US
marshal's belt. It had this big buckle. It was, let's see, about two inches
deep and four inches wide. It wasn't like a usual buckle in that you didn't
put a pin through a hole. The front of the buckle was solid and it had a
smaller hooked pin on the back so that you just threaded it into the
hole. The front was very decorative, with two Colt 45s crossed at the
barrels and a steer head and horns, with the words 'US Marshal' across
the top."
"And did your father wear any kind of cap?"
"Nope," Chris announced. "Rain or shine, my father never needed
anything on his head."

Chapter Eleven

Right THEN, LET'S see how far Betsy has been able to spread
the news," Starrett said as they hopped back in the BMW
and set their sights for just the other side of Rathmullan. He
knew that the Eircom phone lines would be red hot by now with Betsy
and her mates gossiping about the demise of a certain James Moore.
Starrett also knew that no matter how much the gossips speculated,
they'd never ever be able to guess the path this poor unfortunate carpenter
had taken to meet his maker. Not unless they had helped him
on his way, that is, and Starrett doubted if that was the case. He wondered
how long it would be before the murder and its method of execution
became household knowledge in the area.
Once the news of the crucifixion surfaced, Ramelton would be a
madhouse, with the world's media descending on the town like the
proverbial flock of vultures. "RTE were making tapes, taking breaks
and throwing shapes," as Christy Moore once famously sang. What
with the world now as small as it was, thanks to the likes of Sky News
and CNN, Ramelton could even expect representatives of the Vatican's LOsservatore Romano breathing down the gardai's collective necks by
sundown.
But for all of that, and mindful of the grief he knew was surely
around the corner, Starrett knew that the only way to deal with the
investigation was to proceed at his, and his team's, natural pace.
Otherwise there was a danger they'd join the mass of people destined
to run around the town like headless chickens. He did resolve, as he

pulled into Miss McLaughlin's gravel driveway, to have as much of
Ramelton cordoned off from outsider parking as was safely possible. At least if the media circus were going to arrive, he didn't want to make it
easy for them. And neither did he want long lines of locals on the
doorsteps of Tower House complaining about not being able to cross
the Lennon Bridge to the town's favourite watering hole, the near-legendary
Bridge Bar, on the other side.
Eileen McLaughlin was another bottle-blonde. Starrett and Garvey
found her wandering around her garden talking to her dog, a shifty
looking cocker spaniel bitch who licked her lips every time she circled
Garvey's ankles. Eileen was slimmer and taller than Betsy, although the
illusion of height may have been helped somewhat by her puffed-up
hairstyle. Even in the morning's gentle breeze, Starrett couldn't spot a
single strand of hair out of place. Eileen looked as if she'd never forgiven
God for giving the looks she felt were reserved for her to Michelle
Pfeiffer. Mrs McLaughlin was dressed in a yellow tracksuit top, green
tracksuit bottom, with the essential additional Donegal layering--an
orange woollen scarf around the neck--to protect the throat, at least
on the outside, from the perennial damp air. She was topped and toed
with a Ferrari baseball cap and a pair of purple Dunlop pumps, which
all but covered a pair of two-tone blue socks. She looked like a straightened-out
human rainbow as she strolled through her garden, and
Starrett speculated that she could lose herself amongst her beds of multicoloured
tulips.
"Good morning, gentlemen," Eileen said. "Beautiful morning, isn't
it?"
"Yes," Starrett replied, dragging the word out as though he had
only just realised the fact himself. "As a matter of a fact, it is. You know,
this garden is a real credit to you, Eileen."
"Why, thank you, Starrett. That's very kind of you. There's no
short-cut to gardening; you quite simply just have to put in the hours.
I was just saying to Betsy the other day, 'Betsy,' I said, 'there are just not
enough hours in the day to attend to all the plants and flowers and trees
and lawns in my garden.' Well, at least that is what Seamus, my gardener,
tells me once a month when he hands me his invoice."
"For something as beautiful as this, Eileen, you'd have to say that
every cent was well spent. Sure, with the high skies, all these magnificent
trees and the Swilly just across the road," Starrett said, aiming slowly a
full 360 degrees, "you've got your own little corner of paradise here."
"Yes, but I'll tell you what, talking about a rude intruder in paradise,
that car of yours does makes a bit of a racket, doesn't it, Packie?"
Eileen continued in her best Donegal lilt: "Madonna and I were just
saying that it sounded like a Sherman tank coming up the lane. Weren't
we, Madonna?" Having said that, she bent over and ruffled her dog's
ears, which were big enough for her to be able to grab a playful handful.
The dog pretty much ignored her, choosing instead to eye up
Garvey's extremely appetising ankles.
"Sorry about that," Starrett muttered, barely audibly. "Sergeant
Garvey, remind me to take another pool car next time we're out."
Eileen chose to ignore Starrett's little charade. Straightening her
back, she seemed to experience, if the look in her eyes were anything
to go by, a considerable degree of pain as she asked, "What's this I hear
about our poor carpenter being killed earlier today? Sure, that's a terrible
thing altogether, isn't it?"
"Aye, you're not wrong, Eileen," Starrett conceded, mindful that
he'd lost the element of surprise. "Tell me, how long had you known
him?"
"Well, now, let's see, only really a few months," she replied, simultaneously
shooing a couple of bees away from her blood-red tulips.
"Yes, about three months."
"He'd been doing some work for you, I believe?" Packie Garvey
asked, taking out his notebook.
"You can put that away for a start, Sergeant Garvey," Eileen tut-tutted
in her singsong voice. "No, no, no, we'll have none of that auld 'and
the Widow McLaughlin said'nonsense."
"Ach now, Eileen, don't go mistaking Sergeant Garvey here for a
journalist," Starrett said, breaking into a smile.
"Journalists, the gardai, what's the difference?" Eileen said, now
aping Daniel O'Donnell's accent perfectly. "They both try and get you
to commit a statement to paper and then throw the same words back
at you to hang you."
Starrett nodded to Garvey to put away his notebook and pen.
"Sorry, Eileen," he said, "you were just about to tell us about how
Mr James Moore came to be doing some work for you."
"Well, look now, Inspector, I'll tell you the truth and I'll tell you
no lie," Eileen started, looking around her garden in a conspiratorial
manner. Seemingly happy that she'd spotted nobody lurking in her
bushes, she continued, "Amanda, that's Amanda Morrison, Betsy's and
my best friend, well, she persuaded me to give Jimmy some work."
"She was impressed with his work then?" Starrett offered.
"Some might say," Eileen replied coyly. Just then Madonna finally
made her play for Garvey's right ankle, and Eileen turned gently on the
beast: "Oh, careful pet, young Packie Garvey needs his ankles in perfect
working condition this weekend, when he plays against Armagh in the
semis, isn't that right, Sergeant?"
"Aye, well, you know," Garvey replied, in effect saying really
nothing at all.
"Pay no attention to Madonna, she's harmless. Her bark is worse
than her bite, and all she's doing is trying to get attention."
"Aye, a bit like her namesake across the water," Starrett replied, trying
to draw a line under the doggy conversation
"Oh, if the stories I hear are correct, it's not the men's ankles the
other one would be after," Eileen said, nodding knowingly. She looked
around the garden again before continuing in not much more than a
whisper, "I've heard there wasn't much acting going on in that movie
she was in, the one with the s-e-x. Not much need for acting, if you get
my drift."
Starrett, although exasperated, decided that now that Eileen
McLaughlin was in a gossipy mood he might be able to lure her into
giving something away about Amanda Morrison--if, in fact, there was
something to give away. Starrett knew that the deal with gossips was
that they traded in gossip: once you gave some, you stood to get a
morsel in return.
"Yes, well, I can well believe that," Starrett said, before offering,
"Of course, you know Lola Cashman?"
"The woman with U2's hat and glasses?" Eileen said gleefully.
"Well, apparently that case wasn't so much about Bono's hat and
glasses," Starrett said, recalling a story he'd heard in the Bridge Bar.
"Really? Oh my goodness, you mean the whole case was all about
other stuff she has."
"Apparently."
"What other stuff, Starrett? Photos? Videos?"
"I don't rightly know, might even just be a rattle, Eileen," Starrett
offered, flicking his bent forefinger past the end of his nose a couple of
times. "But you know what they say."
Eileen nodded positively, and Starrett wondered who she thought
"they" were. "Ah," he continued slowly and quietly, "weren't you going
to tell us something about Amanda and James Moore?"
For a moment, Eileen looked to be lost more in her just-suppose
about what a certain dresser had been up to, than in giving up the dirt
on her best friend. However, without missing a beat, she offered: "Well,
Starrett, the thing is that Mandy had fallen big time for Jimmy, and
she'd run out of things for him to do around the Manse, so she had me
employ him here to fix up my kitchen just so she would, well you
know, have . . . erm, well I suppose you'd have to say, access, yes that's
it, just so that she had access to him."
Eileen smiled in the devilment of sharing this news, particularly
with a member of the Garda Siochana, but her smile froze in a pathetic
grin as she realised that one of the subjects of her gossip was dead.
Her jaw dropped in shock, and she raised her left hand to her mouth
as if trying to return the offending words.
"Oh my goodness, poor Amanda," she said in a rush. "Poor Jimmy,
what exactly happened to him?"
"We're still investigating the details, Eileen," Starrett replied, far
from a lie, but then again, even further from the truth. "What can you
tell me about him?"
"About Jimmy?" she replied, looking surprised.
"Erm, yes . . ." Starrett said, slightly taken aback by her reaction,
but trying hard not to show it.
"He was a great worker, no matter how much Mandy wanted to
continue their . . . well whatever it was they had. He always insisted on
doing a full day's work. I mean, he was a very quiet man, not really the
kind you'd dream would have an affair. But then, you know what they
say, don't you, Starrett? They say that every man will stray if he can find
a woman who catches his eye and is willing to play, but only a certain
type of woman will dander away."
"Did, erm . . ." Starrett began vaguely. "Did ah . . . First Minister
Morrison know about the relationship?"
"Oh," Eileen replied, laughing the exclamation out into three syllables,
"Ivan knew nothing about anything; I always thought he considered
the dammed thing was for stirring your tea with."
"Sorry?" Packie Garvey said, his eyebrows shooting up.
"Well, Starrett, tell me this, you're a man of the world . . ." Eileen
began. "Why would a man, in full possession of his faculties, marry an
absolute goddess like Mandy and not want to ravage her every single
time he set eyes on her? Eh, Starrett, tell me that. I mean, even Daniel
O'D would have a charge at Mandy, wouldn't he?"
"Well, Eileen," Starrett began, "you have to realise that not every
man is so inclined."
"Oh Starrett, you fool, of course I know that, and God bless them
all so disinclined; the most of them want to run our country, or our
ministry, for us. But my point would be that if I bought a Ferrari and
only drove it to Whoriskey's once a week at 30 miles an hour to pick
up the messages, well, wouldn't that just be a sin? Yes, it might even
constitute criminal negligence. So, I'm not going to buy a Ferrari unless
I'm prepared to give it a hammering every now and then on a nice long
trip to Dublin or Galway or even Belfast, for heaven's sake. So, why
would Ivan think he could get away with marrying Mandy--and
believe you me, she was every bit as expensive as a Ferrari--and not. .
. and not, well. . . cover your ears now, Packie, if you need to . . . give
her a damn good seeing to every now and again?"
"Yes, we do get your point, Eileen," said Starrett.
"But the thing you don't know, Starrett, is that Mandy was a very
needy woman," Eileen said, coughing in fake embarrassment before
continuing: "I've been known to have a moment or two myself, you
know, but Mandy, well . . . when God created her, he should have
issued her with a health warning."
"Did Amanda have many extra-marital relationships, then?"
Starrett asked in a moving-swiftly-along tone.
"Surprisingly few, really," Eileen replied, sounding a little sad. "She
genuinely believed in the whole trip of a woman, a man, falling in love,
marrying and living happily ever after--the fool!"
"But come on, Eileen, First Minister Ivan Morrison, for all his
virtues, and God knows he has some, is hardly someone you'd compare
to George Clooney, so why did the beautiful Amanda end up with him?"

"Aye, if that's not the eighth wonder of the world, Starrett. Both
myself and Betsy counselled against it, but then I suppose we all have to
realise and accept that women do have needs other than the physical."
"Financial, for instance?"
"Financial, for instance," the Widow McLaughlin agreed.
"But what was in it for First Minister Morrison? A trophy wife?"
Starrett asked.
"Exactly!" Eileen replied, emphasising the three syllables.

Chapter Twelve



Major Newton Cunningham was waiting on the steps of Tower House for Starrett when he returned to the garda
station.
The major was deep in conversation with local publican and
raconteur James McDaid, and, for a short time, Starrett thought he was
going to be able to stray under his superior officer's radar.
"Ah, Inspector," the major's clipped tones boomed out over
Gamble Square. "I'm due to leave for a course shortly, and I need you
to brief me immediately on the ahm, Second . . . ahm ..." He turned
to McDaid and said, "Sorry, forgive my manners, James. Could you
excuse me? Duty calls and all of that. I'll see you on the sixth for a spot
of lunch then?"
James McDaid put his hands in his back pockets, Bette Davis style,
and walked away whistling "Ballad of a Thin Man".
"Yes, sir," Starrett replied, wondering which of the major's regularly
frequented golf courses he was off to. "How much do you
know?"
"Well, Starrett, not a lot, to be truthful," Newton Cunningham
said. "Aside from there's a bleeding crucifixion on my patch and my
lead detective has gone AWOL."
"Now, Major, sure wasn't it you who taught me to get on the trail
before it gets cold? And that's what I'm doing, sir, following your standard
procedure."
"I'd say without the slightest fear of contradiction, that the only
procedure you are involved in right now is blowing smoke up your
superiors ..."
"Oh, Major, don't forget the Bean Gharda, will you,"
"Where, where?" the major asked, rising up from his customary
seat on the ancient railings which bordered the tricky stone steps up to
the station house. The major needed to rest his back. He couldn't stand
unassisted for long periods of time, so he had his regular series of props
around the station house and Ramelton where he could support himself
without actually being seen sitting down: radiators, backs of chairs,
sides of desks, walls, steps and staircases were all called into operation.
If there was ridge with a minimum three-inch ledge, the major incorporated
it into his circuit.
His wiry frame was always clothed in a checked shirt, Royal Ulster
Rifles regimental tie, and white and brown brogues, which after twelve
years were only starting to wear in and shine up properly. On the golf
course, where he seemed to spend the majority of his week, he changed
out of his usual tan chinos into a pair of plus-fours, which were in
matching Donegal tweed to his jacket. His other concession to the
course was that he exchanged his ferruled ash for a golf club. He was
permanently slightly stooped, lowering his true height of six feet one
inch to five foot ten-and-a-half inches. Members of his team claimed
that this was so he no longer had to stoop while crossing under the low
doorways of Tower House. Starrett, however, knew that it was the result
of a war wound. The major's back was gone, his liver had all but packed
up, his heart was dickey, his hearing was suspect; but he still had the eyes
of a hawk, a nose primed for clues and a full head of flowing grey hair.
Whereas the nickname Tarzan usually applied to a man much more junior
than the major's seventy-two years, it also implied that in his younger
years he must have been a fine specimen. He'd always maintained that
he'd retire only into a coffin. He was so feared and revered in Garda circles
that Starrett was convinced that the major would see off any and all
internal mutinies for at least the next decade. On top of which, he was
still great at his job, totally up-to-date with garda politics, and the
administrators would ignore his patch at their peril.
That was all that concerned Starrett. He didn't want the chief
superintendent's role himself, and he didn't want to have to waste time
training up a replacement.
"Right, Starrett,'' the major said, hobbling down the steps. "Let's
wander to the clean Lennon River, so we can enjoy some peace and privacy,
shall we?"
"Yes, let's do that," Starrett replied.
A minute later, the major was enthroned on his favourite stone--a
stone Starrett was convinced the major had used so much over the years
that it had been worn down to an almost perfect fit. The trees on the far
bank were in full bloom, and an artist couldn't look for more inspiration
than that of the lazy village of Ramelton going about its day, against the
backdrop of the rambling river, the majestic trees with their forty shades
of green and the blue sky. A Massey Ferguson tractor was crossing the
bridge from the Rathmullan side, with behind it a queue of frustrated
drivers who, for all their impatience and bravado, couldn't find a way past
it. Starrett wondered why they could never realise that it didn't really matter
whether they did or didn't pass him: they were going to reach their
destination when they were meant to and not a second before. Take
James Moore for instance: consider all the tractors and similar vehicles he
must have overtaken in his life and look where it had taken him.
"So, what do we know?" the major asked, pulling Starrett away
from his thoughts.
"Well, Major, we know that a carpenter, a man called James Moore,
was nailed to a cross some time in the early morning, and that the cross
was tied to the pulpit in the Second Federation Church with Mr Moore
left to die on it."
"He actually died on the cross?"
"Yes. Sam--"
"You mean the delightful Dr Aljoe, of course?" the major
interrupted.
"Of course, as I was about to say, Dr Sam-antha Aljoe confirmed
that he bled to death post crucifixion. And bejeepers, Major, did our
boyo bleed. I'd say there must have been at least four pints on the
church floor."
"Well, as you appear to have a high level of expertise in that area,
Starrett, I'll take your word for it," the major said, before adding: "And
what else?"
"James Moore had been doing some carpentry work for Mrs Betsy
Bell."
"Oh, my goodness, Betsy Bell," the major said, his ears pricking
up so much so he could have auditioned for the part of Spock in Star
Trek. "Did you talk to her? I will admit there was a time, before I met
the current Mrs Newton Cunningham, when I was rather partial to
Mrs Bell."
Starrett thought that Betsy Bell could have been only seventeen
years old, at the most, when she was the centre of the major's attention.
As the major started to reminisce, he turned his dark-green felt hat
around in his hand, whilst the finger and thumb of his other hand
traced the outline of the wide brim.
"I remember going to choir practice around in the Town Hall in
Castle Street just so I could steal a glance at Betsy. Starrett, I can tell
you, she was a fine figure of a woman back in those days. I even joined
the Dramatic Society and put myself up for several pantomimes just so
I could be close to her."
"Anything romantic ever happen, Major?" Starrett asked.
"Well, erm, the current Mrs Newton Cunningham came along and
that, well you know, put paid to all of my romantic adventures," the
major replied, pulling himself up very short in his story. "So how is she
keeping these days?"
"She's in fine fettle, Major, keeping well. Anyway, she employed
James Moore to do some work in her house. His carpentry was excellent,
so she introduced him to her friend Amanda Morrison ..."
"Oh, my goodness, Starrett, this is not going to get messy, is it?"
"Well, Major, it would appear that perhaps Amanda and James
Moore had a bit of a fling."
"Oh my goodness, there's going to be hell to pay, Starrett; you
mark my words . . . hell to pay."
"Perhaps the devil has already collected."
"But surely Ivan Morrison wouldn't crucify someone in his own
church?"
"Well, that would be difficult to imagine, Major. The man hasn't
seen his own feet for at least twenty years, but stranger things have been
known to happen."
"Indeed they have, Starrett, indeed they have."
Starrett knew from the look in the major's eye that he'd lost him at
that precise moment. The major rose from his throne and said, "Well,
I'd better leave you to it. Watch out for the press, Starrett. Let's keep
them at bay and get this matter cleared up and sent to the courts as
soon as possible. I'd hate to be having a messy summer in Ramelton
this year. But you say Betsy Bell was looking grand, eh? Perhaps I
should mosey on down and interview her myself. I might just pick up
on something you missed."
"There's a good chance of that, Major, and I'm sure she'd love to
see you again."
"Yes, well, if you insist you need the help, I just might drop in on
her on my way down to the course, you know. I'll keep you posted."
"Good idea. See if she knows where Mrs Morrison is," Starrett
called after the major as he crossed the road.

Chapter Thirteen





INSPECTOR STARRETT's NEXT call was to his team, to see how they'd
been getting on. Quite a few of them were still out, knocking on
doors, house to house, in the surrounding streets of the Second
Federation Church. So far, no suspicious sightings had been reported.
Starrett was happy to note that no calls had yet been logged from
the press. He was not happy to note that his team had absolutely nothing
else to report but sometimes it just worked out that way. You dug
and you dug in the hope of finding something. The problem was that
you were never even sure you were digging in the right place. The only
important thing was that you were digging. His logic decreed simply:
no digging, no discovery.
Since Starrett had changed his career, he'd been searching. He'd disappeared
to London--he'd had to--and there was a certain amount of
shame involved in not achieving what his family had expected from
him. There was an even larger degree of shame in not achieving what
you had expected of yourself. As was mostly the case in life, the family
forgave him a long time before he forgave himself.
London, in the late 1970s and early 1980s was an easy place to
hide. Starrett had found, to his surprise, that there was something therapeutic
about living in a town where no one, including people living
in the same house, knew you or anything about you or your business.
This was particularly refreshing to someone like Starrett, who'd come
from a small town like Ramelton, where everyone knew absolutely
everything about everyone. Yes, he'd been desperately lonely at first, so

lonely in fact that if it hadn't been for the situation at home, he'd have
been back on the first boat. But London was filled with thousands of
kindred spirits, people with their own deeds and thoughts to forget,
and the grand city embraced all outcasts as its own. London town, like
all great towns and cities, instinctively knows that its new blood is its
lifeblood.
One by one, he made friends and acquaintances. A month into his
enforced exile, he'd reached the end of one day and realised that not
once since he'd woken up had he thought about the folks back home.
He hadn't even thought about one person in particular back home.
Starrett had always been a fan of cars, especially classic cars, and so
he followed his passion and secured a job at Kensington Classic Cars.
Pretty soon--within eighteen months--he was not only their number
one salesman, but they'd also allowed him to scout out antique cars in
need of care, love, attention. This was the bit he loved most, and pretty
soon he was spending most of his time travelling throughout southern
England in his endless search for classic cars.
The cars attracted a particular set of people, people fortunately not
bigoted against the Irish, which was not always the case for the emigrants
of the time. As cosy as Starrett's little scene was, every time the
IRA let off a bomb, he could see the look of doubt and even mistrust
in some people's eyes as they heard his Donegal accent.
He'd had a few relationships, and few of those had created any lasting
impression. He knew the reason for this and tried to avoid thinking
about it. He made friends with girls better than he made girlfriends.
He enjoyed a pint of Guinness every now and then, which in Starrett's
case didn't mean that he had a drink problem, just that he enjoyed sitting
around in pubs, chatting, particularly about cars.
The years passed, and the more contacts he made in the car trade,
the less he had to search for new cars. But the less he had to search for
his cars, the less he enjoyed the work. Soon he realised that it was the
thrill of the chase and tracking down leads that put the biggest tick into
his job-satisfaction box. He also realised, as he crossed the big three-oh
threshold, that he wasn't really living much of a life in London. He was
merely treading water, and he wasn't the only one. He could remember
sitting in a pub in West Hampstead with a bunch of mates, some of
whom were Irish, some not. Not for the first time in his life, he heard
an Irishman cry into his beer about the "auld country", and in spite of
his natural affinity with a fellow countryman, he heard himself saying,
"If it's that brilliant, why don't you just feck off home to the old sod?"
"Well, why don't you just feck off there yourself, Starrett?"
"Bejeepers," Starrett stuttered, as if he'd just been hit by a holy
beam of light from a Jaguar Mark II on the dual carriageway to
Damascus. "You know what? I think I'll just do that."
And he did.
The following morning, he went home, forsaking the usual ferry,
arriving instead at British Airways' infamous cattle pen, officially
known as Gate 49, Aldergrove Airport.
His eyes didn't drop out when he walked up the street in Ramelton.
People didn't turn and talk about him and the scandal he'd left behind.
Within half an hour, he realised that he was yesterday's news; there was
more recent gossip to preoccupy the locals. Starrett was allowed, even
encouraged, to blend back into the community as though he never
been away.
Even his parents, who hadn't seen him for the entire twelve years
he'd spent in the Big Smoke, welcomed him home like the prodigal son.
They didn't go as far as killing the fatted calf, but his mam did roast up
a chicken for him.
And that was that.
Well, apart from technical and domestic details like flying back to
London the following week to put his flat and contents on the market
and working out a severance deal with the two principals of the Classic
Car Company. At that stage, through his endeavours, Starrett owned
25 per cent of the company. They behaved as total gentlemen, as they
always had in their dealings with him. He sold them back 15 per cent
for a handsome sum and decided to hold on to 10 per cent so that he'd
have something other than money to show for his time in London.
Besides, he might want to have some continued involvement, albeit
merely as a car scout in Ireland.
It was the best deal he'd ever done in his life.
He was surprised how little he missed London, and even more surprising
was how easily he slotted back into the Donegal way of life. In
London, everything had gone past in a flash, without his even having
a chance to be aware of what he missed. At the Ramelton pace, he
really did have time to stop and smell the roses in his father's incredible
garden.
A friend of his father's, a certain Major Newton Cunningham, was
around for dinner six weeks into Starrett's new life, and after Starrett
had told him about how he used to track down the classic cars, the
major declared, "With that kind of job experience, it seems to me you'd
be great at tracking down some of these petty criminals we come into
contact with over at the garda station."
And that was the career taken care of.
Starrett absolutely loved each and every day he worked there.
He did his twenty-two weeks' training at Garda Training Centre in Templemore, County Tipperary; twenty-four weeks at various stations
around the countryside; another refresher fourteen weeks at
Templemore; thirty-six weeks as probationary garda, and then a final
six weeks at Templemore to complete his training and graduate as a
garda, returning to the major's patch in Ramelton. The major had
found a way around one slightly sticky regulation in the Garda Code
of Proceedure, namely a guard not being stationed in his own village,
claiming that as Starrett had resided in London for so long, he was no
longer a local.
Starrett's subjects had included law, social studies, theory of policing,
communications, the Irish language, physical training and technical
studies. He could also have covered European languages but
couldn't be bothered on the grounds that he'd pretty much decided he
wasn't going to travel much, and when on holidays he still had more
than 99 per cent of America to discover. This turned out to be a sorry
omission, but he wasn't to realise how handy the European languages
would have been to him in Ireland within the decade.
Within seven years, he made inspector. He kept thinking that one
day someone was going to tap him on the shoulder and say, "The game's
up, out you go." But no, he was allowed to make it up as he went along,
and he seemed to be making it up with at least some degree of expertise,
because the major annually declared their patch to have the best
clear-up rate in the country. The major was prouder still when the
Templemore boys sent a couple of their superintendents up to Ramelton
for several days to monitor Starrett's team and its methods.
What was the key to Starrett's success? The only thing the
Templemore superintendents would report back to their Dublin superiors--who
would in turn pass it on to the major, who in turn would
pass it on to Starrett--was Starrett's unique ability to read situations
and witnesses. According to the Tipperary heads, Starrett seemed to
have some sixth sense when it came to assessing the truthfulness of witnesses.
When Starrett was told the news, he immediately thought of his
mam, who had a kind of healing gift that she spread liberally and freely
in the community.
Until the major had quoted the Dubliner's use of the words "sixth
sense", he'd never ever considered possible by-products of his mother's
genes. But that evening he recalled several incidents from his times in
London when he was either very lucky or else charmed in decisions and
calls he had made. Like the time he drove a colleague down to
Guildford to pick up a car. Starrett refused to allow his workmate to
drive the car away until he'd checked the brakes. It turned out that the
brake-cable was a micron away from snapping. Like the time he was on
a date and they intended to stop off at a favourite watering hole in Soho
for a drink on the way to the cinema. On his journey into the West
End, Starrett suddenly experienced several disturbing flashes. Later he
could recall them only as partial hallucinations of scenes of human carnage
blazing through his mind. Starrett detoured to leafy Hampstead
instead. Later that night, he saw on the news that a bomb had
destroyed the Soho pub he and his date had been planning on visiting.
There were several fatalities. Before the superintendent's report, Starrett
had put these and similar incidents down to luck.
On his return from London, Starrett had used a modest proportion
of his shares income to buy and refurbish a stone barn on the
Rathmullan Road with a Swilly view. And over the years he had made
it his own hideaway.
He wondered now why James Moore's name had never come up
when he'd been looking for skilled and trustworthy local craftsmen.
The man he'd eventually used was a master craftsman himself and he'd
done Starrett proud, but, he thought, now that Starrett had seen the
quality of his work it was odd that no one had even recommended
James Moore.
Starrett and Packie headed up the steep hill that was Bridge Street,
took a right, enjoyed a quick whiff of the comfort food on offer at
Steve's Cafe, and walked up Church Street in the general direction of
the Second Federation Church. Starrett had his sights set on the Manse,
home of First Minister Ivan Morrison and his wife Amanda, who was
proving to be the focus of more people's attention than one might reasonably
consider healthy.

Chapter Fourteen





IT WASN'T SO much that the Manse of the Second Federation
Church was ugly, as that it was a contrast to the amazing scenery
of the spot where the Lennon River flows into Lough Swilly. The
rear overlooked Church Street, and this aspect was unsightly to the
degree that every time Starrett walked past the place, he considered
what could be done to improve the drab, grey, pipe-infested eyesore.
Each time he reached the same conclusion; it could be improved only
by a demolitions expert.
A quick trip down Mortimer's Lane, to the right of the Manse,
revealed the true front of the house, reached via an ornamental side
gate. The grand house's designers had originally intended it to be
admired from afar. In recent years, though, the numerous houses
springing up around the foothills of the village had restricted the views
of and out of the Manse to the extent that it looked hemmed in.
Inside, the house did not betray such imperfections, and it looked
as if First Minister Morrison and previous keepers of the keys had gone
to considerable trouble to retain each and every one of the Manse's original
features in perfect condition. In Morrison's case, the Second
Federation Church had paid for the refurbishments, whereas all such
similar work would have had to come out of his predecessors' own
pockets. From a salvager's point of view, the inside of the house was
positively a gold mine in waiting.
For his part, First Minister Ivan Morrison seemed totally oblivious
to the worth and beauty of his surroundings. As he led Starrett and
Garvey through the shadowy hallway to the sitting room, he appeared
preoccupied. He had changed clothes since they'd last seen him and was
now wearing a black morning suit--the type that requires you to throw
up your coat-tails before you sit down, which Morrison had mastered
with considerable flair.
The sitting room, unlike the hallway, was airy and bright, furnished
with antiques that Starrett assumed were acquired when the
house was first built. The walls were covered with paintings, prints and
photographs from yesteryear. Several vases were filled to overflowing
with colourful flower displays, and the pale blue curtains around the
large bay window softened the somewhat masculine feeling of the
room.
Morrison looked and acted like someone who was visiting his dentist,
simultaneously dreading the experience and relieved that he was in
the process of putting the horror behind him.
Starrett stood by the fireplace admiring the room as Morrison
invited them to take a seat.
"Bejeepers," Starrett half shouted as he sank too deep into the sofa
in front of the peat and wood-log fire. "There's a chance you might
never get me out of this sofa or this room."
"I'm sure we're both much too busy to be loitering around
drawing rooms all afternoon. Can we please get on with this nasty
business?"
"I'll tell you, First Minister, I'm parched. Any chance of an auld
cup of tea or coffee?"
Morrison gave an "oh, if I must" shrug and rang a bell, which sat
on a smallish circular table, conveniently positioned to the right of his
leather chair. The table also supported a reading light, a Roberts radio,
a copy of The Irish Times and several neatly stacked magazines and
books. The chair succumbed too easily, and its contours changed too
quickly to accommodate Morrison's portly shape, for it to have been his
maiden visit there. Starrett guessed it was probably his favourite chair
and position, and friends and strangers alike were banned from sampling
the comfort it offered.
A few moments later, a dark-haired girl arrived.
"Yes, Agga," Morrison announced, his baritone voice filling the
entire room. "Refreshments for our visitors."
"Oh, tea or coffee?" she enquired, her Polish heritage shining
through.
"Coffee would be perfect, please," Starrett replied. "Thank . . . you
. . . very . . . much."
Just as he finished, he realised he himself had been guilty of
addressing her as if, just because she was from foreign parts, she couldn't
understand English. It reminded him of when he'd visited London first
and he'd had to resort to such tactics to make himself, the foreigner in
that instance, understood.
Morrison was obviously not ready for the interview to start,
because he busied himself with his papers, making notes here and there.
Occasionally he looked up to Starrett and Garvey, as if to say, "Are you
two still here?"
Agga returned a few minutes later, laden down with a tray precariously
crammed with white bone-china cups and saucers, white and
patterned pastry plates, a generous milk jug, a deprived sugar bowl,
shiny teaspoons, dainty pastry forks, snow-white lace napkins, a
scrumptious Victoria sponge cake and an off-white coffee pot. Starrett
realised that she was thin as a rake and it had been her dark blue uniform
and her blue and white striped pinafore which had created the
illusion of a person of greater substance. He rushed over to assist her
with her burden, gaining nothing for his trouble bar a roll of Morrison's
swinish eyes.
The fact that Starrett and Garvey had not eaten since breakfast and
the first minister had his generous girth to support resulted in the better
part of the sponge cake being reduced to a sparse scattering of
crumbs within a matter of minutes. For his part, Starrett couldn't
remember when he had last tasted a cake where the sponge felt so light,
the cream so fresh and the jam so much of hand-picked strawberries.
"Lofty coffee"--a Second Federation Church version of a high tea--
over, the three men finally got down to the business in hand.
They had skirted around the issue of Moore's crucifixion in general
terms during refreshments, but now Starrett moved the talk from conversation
to interrogation.
?"
"So, Ivan," Starrett said, using a flimsy napkin to dab at either side
of his mouth. "You weren't exactly truthful with us this morning, were
you

"How so?" First Minister Morrison replied.
This wasn't the most passionate denial Starrett had ever heard.
"Well, you didn't tell us that on top of the work James Moore had
done for you in the library of the Manse, you'd also commissioned him
to build you a pulpit?"
"You didn't ask," Morrison snorted. "I would have thought that by
now, Inspector, you would have realised you get nothing in this world
if you don't ask for it."
"OK, I'm asking now, Ivan. Was James Moore making a pulpit for
you?"
"No," Morrison said. "We've got a perfectly good pulpit as it is.
The Texas congregation had it shipped over as a present from our
American brothers and sisters."
"We'll come back to that," Starrett said, trying not to show surprise.
"Have you heard from Mrs Morrison yet?"
"No, I haven't."
"Aren't you worried?" Starrett asked.
"Oh, Starrett, she's forty-one years of age. She's resourceful; she's
well capable of looking after herself."
"Sorry," Starrett said in evident disbelief. "I have to admit to you
here, Ivan, you're troubling me. Does Amanda often go missing? Are
any of her clothes missing? Has a suitcase been taken? Have you called
her friends to check whether they know where she is?"
"Mrs Morrison lives her own life, Inspector. We are not joined at
the hip. We have never been one of those pathetic married couples
who live in each other's pockets. A wife is not a carbuncle attached to
her husband's body. A man can never own a woman, and a woman
can never own a man. I can't live Mrs Morrison's life, nor can she
mine. She has way too many clothes for me to know whether any of
them are missing. I don't know where she keeps any suitcases she may
have. All I can tell you is that no doubt they're a matching set and I'll
eventually receive the bill for excess baggage. And finally, Inspector,
as you well know, a man was found murdered in my church this
morning. I've been way too preoccupied with that incident to worry
about ringing Mrs Morrison's friends to check on her whereabouts."
"Bejeepers, Ivan, she's your wife. She's missing . . ."
"I'll thank you to address me by my full title. That's First Minister
to you, Inspector, and I'd add that until such time as I report my wife
missing, her whereabouts are no concern of yours. On top of which, I
would have thought, with this morning's mess, your hands would be
full enough."
"OK," Starrett said, smiling his way through Morrison's rebuff.
"James Moore: how long did he work here?"
"Oh, a few months," Morrison replied dismissively.
"Did the two of you have much to do with each other?"
"I don't have a lot to do with the servants, Inspector."
"For a minister, you don't really seem to have a lot to do with anybody,
Reverend Morrison."
"First Minister, Inspector." Morrison said, smiling sweetly. "I don't
think it does to become too familiar with hired help."
"I was thinking more of your wife, Vicar," Starrett said, unable to
hide a snarl.
"This interview is terminated," Morrison said, fussing this way and
that, as he awkwardly squeezed himself out of his chair.
He'd just about made it to a standing position when Starrett
jumped up in front of him and shoved him back down into his leather
chair. This time the tails of his coat fell awkwardly in trails of several
future creases. Starrett's attack could later, if necessary, be interpreted
as his having bumped into Morrison.
Starrett spoke next, his tone authoritative and his volume low:
"You're mistaken, First Minister. This interview is most certainly
not over. It will be over only as and when the sergeant and I say it's over,
and if you have a problem with that, then we'll arrest you here and now
and take you down to Tower House and conclude our questioning
there. Now, I for one would much prefer to finish the proceedings in
these far more salubrious surroundings. What do you think yourself,
Packie?"
"I don't know; it would be a close call for me. I mean, with the cells
in the garda station being in the basement, below the level of the river,
there'd probably be more vermin down there." The sergeant took a long
stare at Morrison before continuing, "But then again, maybe not."
"There it is then. All right, Parson?"
Morrison, now beetroot red, looked as if smoke might emerge
from his ears any second.
"I'll take that as a yes, then," continued Starrett. "Now, where were
we? Oh yes, we were talking about James Moore working in this fine
house. Did you see him around much?
"No," Morrison replied indignantly.
"Did you talk to him much?"
"I don't believe I ever did."
"A man worked in your house for several months, a master craftsman
in fact, and you're telling me you didn't talk to him even once?"
"I'd no call to; Mrs Morrison took care of all that kind of stuff."
"Then tell me this, Chaplain: what did you think of his work?"
"I assume it was OK. I was concerned only with my valuable
books," Morrison said.
"Sorry? I don't understand."
"Well, when he was taking the old shelves down, we had to remove
all the books and stack them around the walls in here until the new shelves were ready. I was worried that they might get damaged."
"But none were damaged?"
"No, they were all fine."
"And his work: what do you mean you, 'assumed' it was OK. You
don't mean to tell me you haven't examined it yet?"
"I have other priorities, Inspector."
"OK, I accept that, but I'll tell you what, out of respect for the poor
unfortunate, let's just go in there now and have a look at his work."
Without waiting for a response, Starrett rose and nodded to Garvey
to do the same. Starrett crossed the room to Morrison and offered his
hand to help him. The unholy trinity then made their way, led by the
first minister, into the library.
It was exactly the same size as the sitting room but windowless,
with all four walls packed floor to ceiling with books.
Starrett strode over the royal blue carpet to the opposite wall; he
grabbed the edge of one of the upright units between his thumb and
forefinger and shook it. What did he expect? That the shelves would
collapse around him? The intricate carvings and inlays on the edges of
the shelves were similar in texture and design to the decorative finishing
he'd seen earlier on the new pulpit. He removed a book at random.
The name Seamus Heaney was embossed in gold letters on the brown
leather spine. As Morrison looked on nervously, Starrett removed the
book from the slipcase and read aloud: "Seamus Heaney, Poems and a
Memoir, illustrated by Henry Pearson, the Limited Editions Club."
Starrett carefully flicked through the book.
Morrison took the book and the slipcase firmly from Starrett, with
great disdain, flicked to the title page and said, "Look, here, it's signed
by Seamus Heaney and the illustrator and someone else. It's a limited
edition of 2000, and my edition is number 354."
"Is it a good book, then?" Garvey asked.
"Is it a good book!" Morrison mocked. "It's Seamus Heaney, for
heaven's sake!"
"Yes, but have you read it?" Starrett asked.
Morrison laughed to himself as he replaced the book in its slipcase
and returned it to the shelf.
"I'll take that as a no, then," Starrett said, winking at Garvey.
"What about this one?"
Starrett picked another book at random. This time it had a vibrantly
colourful dust jacket.
"Which one is that?" Morrison asked, whilst carefully ensuring that
the spine of the Heaney tome was level with those of the neighbouring
volumes.
"It's First of the True Believers by Theodore Hennessey."
"Oh, that's just airport fodder. It's Mrs Morrison's; it shouldn't even
be in here. Just leave it on the table there by the door and I'll have Agga
take it up to Mrs Morrison's room."
Garvey, who was also examining the shelves, seemed to have found
a book that caught his eye. Morrison now didn't know which way to
turn, as Garvey removed a book from the shelves.

"What's that one, Packie?"
Morrison rushed over and relieved Garvey of the large, black
leather volume.
"Oh, careful, that one's very rare. That's the History of the Second
Federation Church by one of our revered first ministers, James Driver
from our Las Vegas parish. There were only ever 200 of this particular
book printed, and this is the only one outside of the United States of
America."
"Is it the history of the church, or your rule book or your Ten
Commandments, or something?" Starrett asked.
"A combination of all three in fact. We have no commandments,
but we have the Twelve Rules and Thirty-Three Laws of Federation. Bill
O'Donnell--" Morrison cleared his throat, perhaps at the over
familiarity of use of the church's founder's name, "--wanted to try to
keep our church as basic as possible. His point was that when you tell
people that a religion is based on a father sending his son to die, humiliated
and nailed to a cross, and then the son ascends in full view up into
the heavens. . . well, you have to admit that it does stretch belief somewhat.
So the entire foundation of your church is built on quicksand.
However, if you say to people, 'Come and join us and we will teach you
how to live more successfully with your fellow men and women. We will
show you how to make your life easier, not perfect, but just easier.' Well,
it's relatively simple for them to take that sort of leap of faith, isn't it?"
"Is it?" Starrett enquired. "Do we not need something bigger and
better than ourselves to look up to? Do we not need to believe at least
in the possibility of miracles just to help us get through our drab lives?"
"No, no, no," Morrison replied, as if the dentist had just advised
him there was nothing needing doing. "That's where the majority of
religions fall flat on their collective faces. They assume that their congregations
are pathetic and in need of spiritual guidance. What they fail to
realise is that, in this day and age, the majority of people believe that
when they die that's it: it's over, the end, finito. We become nothing
more than worm-food, fertilisation for the soil, so there's not a lot of
point in aspiring to, or expecting, anything more. OK now, for the sake
of our discussion, let's just, for the moment at least, accept that as fact.
"Then Bill O'Donnell started to consider how we could make our
flocks' lives easier. From there it was all very basic and pretty simple.
Firstly, if we as humans help each other in our everyday tasks, we
increase our level of achievement. Everything literally stems from that.
Our Thirty-Three Laws are in reality hints and tips about how we can
live together and enjoy a better life by helping each other." Morrison
paused and led them back into the sitting room. His precious books
would be safer with the two policemen out of the library.
"But all that living together and helping each other is a bit idealistic,
isn't it?" Starrett offered, once they were back in their old chairs
again.
"We like to think we're more realists than idealists."
"But you're not offering anyone a reason to aspire to greatness,"
Starrett said. "Take Packie here, for instance ... now, if you've ever seen
him fly up the centre of the hurling field and score, sure it's a sight for
bright eyes."
"Yes, but does it physically do anything for the community?"
Morrison enquired, with a tone that suggested he'd been down this discussion
route numerous times before.
"It inspires them."
"Yes, but it doesn't feed them."
"Man does not live by bread alone," Starrett said and immediately
regretted it.
"Ah, that old chestnut," Morrison said smugly. "But let me just say
this in conclusion, Starrett: the main difference between the Second
Federation Church and every other church is that we do not feel we are
superior, nor do we feel a need to convert as many people as possible
to our way of life."
"So noted," Starrett replied graciously. "But if you don't mind, I'd
like to get back to the subject of James Moore. I'm trying to figure out,
if you didn't communicate much with the carpenter, how he took
instruction for building the pulpit for you."
"What pulpit?"
"The magnificent pulpit that Chris Moore, James' fifteen-year-old
son, showed me just a couple of hours ago," Starrett said. Seeing the
bewilderment in Morrison's eyes, he continued, "I'm sorry. I was told
he'd made it for you and your church."
"It's the first I've ever heard of it," Morrison replied. "We've no
need for one."
Starrett felt that the first minister was telling the truth. He
considered his next question carefully, trying it out in his mind a few
different ways, but in the end he knew that there was really only one
way to ask the question.
"Did you know that your wife was having an affair with James
Moore?"
At that precise moment, Agga entered the library, presumably to
clear away the tea things. Morrison screamed something at her in a foreign
language, which made her turn on a pinhead and run out of the
room in tears.
"Right, that's it. The interview is most definitely over, gentlemen.
You can see yourselves out," Morrison said, angling himself out of his
chair sideways and trotting swiftly out of the room.
Packie made to chase after him, but Starrett shook his head slowly
from left to right a couple of times.
"The first minister's going nowhere, Packie," Starrett said, helping
himself to the remaining inch wedge of Victoria sponge. "Leave him be
for now. Did you know that if you put a few drops of whiskey on the
tail of a scorpion, it'll run around in a crazy circle until it kills itself?"
"What, you mean that the first minister is running around in circles
now?" Packie asked, clearly confused.
"Nope," Starrett replied as he stood up and winked his left ice-blue
eye at Garvey. "What I meant is that it's a sad waste of whiskey."

Chapter Fifteen



AS THEY STROLLED down Bridge Street, Packie was the first to
speak: "So, do you think the first minister knew his wife was
having an affair with James Moore?"
"I do, Packie," Starrett replied, hands deep in pockets and feeling
and acting twitchy. "That's not the saddest part of their relationship
though."
"And what is then?"
"I'll tell you, if I can blag a fag off you."
"Ah, Inspector."
"Ah, don't 'ah' me, Packie," Starrett sighed, more annoyed at himself
than his sergeant was. "What time is it?"
"Four-thirty."
"Well, that's great, isn't it? It's only my first ciggy of the day."
Garvey made a fuss about giving Starrett one of the remaining nine
Players from the packet he kept in his breast pocket.
"How many left now, Packie?"
"After this one, there'll be eight."
The sergeant carried the packet of Players around for Starrett,
who'd been quitting since he returned from London. "This time I'm
serious," Starrett had reported to his trusted sergeant. The idea was that
the end of this pack was the end of Starrett's smoking life. Secretly the
detective was searching for a reason, a bigger reason, to give up the terrible
habit, which he enjoyed immensely. In times of desperation, he
reasoned with himself, there were worse things you could do to your
body. Things like walking around the streets of Letterkenny; if the traffic
didn't kill you, the exhaust fumes just might. Things like consuming
vast amounts of food filled with additives and preservatives. Things
like spending a whole winter in Donegal without taking a break somewhere--anywhere--in
the sun. Heck, even a weekend trip down to
Belfast might just do the trick.
Starrett grabbed the coffin nail and struck a Lucifer against the
brick wall as he passed the derelict hotel. He took a deep drag.
"Ach," he said with a loud sigh of pleasure. "How can something
so good be so bad?"
"Weren't you going to enlighten me as to the saddest part of First
Minister Morrison and his wife's relationship?" Packie asked.
"Oh yes..." Starrett paused and removed a small piece of tobacco
that had become embedded between two of his Colgate-white teeth.
He felt it was worth the trouble of getting something stuck between
your teeth just because it felt so great when you managed to
manoeuvre it free with your tongue. Starrett liked the nicotine hit, but
he hated the taste tobacco left in his mouth and the sandpaper
roughness it left in his throat. Someday he'd give up smoking; some
day soon, but not today.
He walked a few more steps before continuing: "Well, I thought
the sad thing was not that Morrison knows his wife was cheating, but
that he doesn't care about it. This in turn tends to suggest to me that
this is not the first time she has strayed."
"Just because they sleep in separate rooms?"
"Fair play to you, Packie. I wondered if you'd pick up on Morrison's
reference to 'her room'." Starrett smiled. They'd just reached the steps
of Tower House. "But no, not just that; it was more the look in his eyes.
Ivan Morrison doesn't expect anything from life and so he's never disappointed.
On top of which, the wee shit is more concerned about how
great Amanda looks on the end of his arm than he is about her alleged
adultery. Look, Packie, I've got an appointment up in Gomorrah; could
you take young Nuala with you and see if you can find those friends of
James Moore we heard about? His workmate Colm Donovan, his old
friend Daniel McGuinness and Uncle Dolphie, who's not his uncle but
his brother-in-law. You know what we're after: literally anything we can
find out about James. Oh, yeah, I nearly forgot. On your way back,
could you also drop in the Manse and have a a wee chat with Agga by
herself. She should have something worthwhile to tell us."
Packie nodded and entered Tower House in search of Garda Nuala
Gibson. Starrett remained on the steps, smoking and looking around
at the generous scattering of butts at his feet. Starrett spent the final
few moments with his dying cigarette trying to guess the identities of
the smokers of the butts on the ground from clues such as lipstick
smears, butt-lengths and pinch-marks.
He managed to guess only four out of five owners, less than his
normal 100 per cent success rate.


Chapter Sixteen



ABOUT FIVE MINUTES after Starrett started out on his ten-minute
drive to Letterkenny, Sergeant Packie Garvey and Garda Nuala
Gibson, stuck behind a long snake of cars following an ancient
Massey Ferguson tractor, were taking the same time to cover half the
distance on the same road.
"Just our luck," Packie said as he settled down to accept the
eighteen-mile-an-hour journey. "Yer man is blessed in situations like
this; or at least he always seems to miss them."
"Yes," Nuala said from the driver's seat. "I've heard he has some
kind of sixth sense or something."
She was slightly distracted from her conversation because there was
a nutter three cars behind them, who kept pulling out into the oncoming
lane for a sniff.
"Ah," Packie said, a hint of a smile creeping over his clean skin face,
"the longer you're here, the more you'll see that there is something in
all that. But you'll never ever get the inspector to admit it."
"What exactly are we talking about here, Uri Geller or what?"
Garvey sighed in a dismissive way only Galway people can carry
off. "Sure he's nothing but an auld trickster. No, our man's a bit more
special than that."
"Yeah, my mother says that Starrett's mother is blessed with a healing
hand."
"There may be a certain amount of truth in that, but I think you'll
find she considers herself a helper and not a healer. From the little I
know about this area, I'd say it's the ones who make the greatest claims
who have the least power."
"Finbar Nolan?"
"Exactly," Garvey replied.
The only comment of note that he'd ever made in Garvey's company
was when they'd been to interview a suspect in a hit-and-run incident.
The suspect, as it turned out, was (a) a revered pioneer and (b) in
his place of work at the time of the incident. However, the same suspect
recognised Starrett and invited him upstairs to lay his hands on
his sick mother.
Starrett had quietly replied, "That's not part of my gift. I'll bring
my mother over later today."
Three weeks later, Packie noticed the pioneer and his mother happily,
and apparently healthily, walking down the street in their native
Rathmullan.
At that moment, as the nutter pulled out again and was about to try
and overtake the line of cars, Nuala pulled out slightly to block him and
to let him see the markings of the garda car. The nutter moved closer to
her bumper, assuming he was going to get a coat-tail ride through the
frustrated traffic. When Nuala pulled out fully into the oncoming traffic
lane, the nutter pulled up closer behind them. She braked. It was a dangerous
move, but he responded by slowing down. She repeated the process
three times until all the traffic had passed them by.
Garvey wound down his window and indicated to the nutter in
question to pull in to the side of the road. They charged the berk in the
Merc with dangerous driving and advised him that they would recommend
that he be banned from driving for at least twelve months. They
followed Starrett's standard approach of being so nice and polite to the
driver that it drove him totally insane. They left him by the side of the
road, incensed but alive.
A few minutes later, Nuala pulled the car into a yard beside a bungalow,
just the other side of the Silver Tassie. The yard was tidy and
packed with scaffolding frames and poles, planks, a cement mixer, a
trailer, a stack of bags of cement, a small town of red brick and a stack
of wood under a blue tarpaulin cover. A large white dog came charging
towards them, barking his head off.
A man came running out of the back door shouting, "Digger,
Digger, get down!" as he beat the side of his denim-clad leg furiously
with his hand. "Sorry about that. Digger's main job a few years ago was
to protect the babbies, but now they're all grown he feels redundant
unless he gets a good fit of barking in at least once a day."
The man grabbed Digger by the collar and pulled him back
towards the house, manhandling him through the back door and slamming
it behind him.
Garvey and Gibson gingerly made their way out of the car as the
dog-owner came back to greet them.
"We're looking for Colm Donovan," Nuala Gibson said through a
large smile.
"Aye, look no further then; I'm your man."
Colm Donovan looked as if he'd just entered his thirties but was
reluctant to admit it. He wore his hair short and dyed blond, which
kind of worked against his permanently tanned, weather-beaten skin.
He wore a snow-white T-shirt with the short sleeves rolled up to his
shoulder. A pack of Camel cigarettes was secured in the folds of the left
sleeve. The rest of his outfit was the traditional builder's uniform of
tight-fitting blue denims and tan Timberland boots with the vital protective
toecaps. His boyish looks, charm and easy manner had brought
an instant smile to Gibson's face.
Garvey, however, felt that the builder's eyes betrayed something
deeper. Or he might just have been trying to read more into the situation
than was there because Starrett wasn't with him, he thought.
Donovan was not what you would call stout, but he was built very
solidly, Garvey observed, built like a brick shi . . . sorry, he apologised
to himself, built like a brick outdoor toilet. Garvey wondered what that
saying actually meant.
They introduced themselves. Donovan already knew Packie from
the sidelines of hurling matches.
"We believe you were acquainted with James Moore from
Downings?" Nuala Gibson enquired.
"Jimmy, aye, yes, of course," Colm Donovan said. "Is he in trouble
or something? Look, do you want to come in for a chat?"
Inside, Garvey could still hear the dog barking. He leaned against
the garda car and said, "Nah, we'll be fine here. Sadly James Moore was
fatally injured and--"
"Noooo," Donovan broke in. "You mean he's dead?"
"I'm afraid so," Gibson said.
"Oh, my God. Oh, my God!" Donovan said, looking unsteady on
his feet.
"Are you OK?" Nuala asked, taking a cautious step towards the
builder.
"Sorry," Donovan said, looking thoughtful and confused. "No, I
mean yes. It's just that I was working with him only last weekend and
he seemed fine. It can't have been an accident; he was a very cautious
man, very careful. What happened to him?"
"Well, that's what we're trying to find out," Garvey said. "You say
you saw him last weekend?"
"Yes, we were working together last Saturday and Sunday."
"Where was this?" Gibson asked.
"Just off the Milford to Kerrykeel road," Donovan said. "A refurbishment
for a German gentleman, Herr Karsten Jahnke. He's raising
the roof by six foot to get an extra storey, and he wants it done by the
time he comes over in July for his summer break. Aye, I'm not one to
complain, we both have a couple of jobs on the go, but he might have
been better to buy a bigger house in the first place. To be fair to him,
though, he does have an amazing view of the water."
"Oh, I know the place, just up past the House of Love," Garvey
said, as he mentally drove along the road.
"Yes, just on past that," Donovan agreed.
"Yeah," Garvey continued. "Our goalie, Seamus O'Neill, lives on
past there but on the other side of the road."
"So," Nuala Gibson interrupted, wanting to get on with the interview,
"what was James Moore's role on that particular job?"
"Aye, right. The builders had cleared off the slates the day before and
were protecting the house with plastic sheets. Jimmy and a few of the
chippies dismantled the rafters, and me and a couple of my boys threw
up the new stonework. Ach, sure you know what it's like. In between the
showers, it ended up taking us the entire weekend, but yer man did good
by us. He paid us a full week's wages for the two days' work."

"And probably in cash?" Garvey added with a wink.
"Ach now, sure, you know," Donovan replied in a noncommittal
tone. "I'll tell you this, though, we all earned our money last weekend."
"OK," Gibson said. "How often did you work with James Moore?"
"Ach now, not a lot," Donovan replied, lifting his right arm into the
air and then stretching his hand behind his shoulders to give the area
between his shoulder blades a good scratch. "Jimmy's a master carpenter,
and he tends to be a bit of a loner. I'm not saying he's a snob or anything
like that. It's just that I've never seen a man so content in his own
company. You'd work on a site with him for a week, and you'd hardly
know he was there. Jimmy's a real artist, you know. You should see the
things he could do with a chunk of wood and those chisels of his, ach,
my goodness. But he likes to focus on his work. He's not one of those
chirpy lads who give a running commentary on everything he does."
"And what about socially?" Gibson interrupted again.
"Well, Jimmy isn't, sorry, of course I mean, wasn't really a man for
the pub, but you know, there was couple of times when I had to drop
up to his house to see if he was available for such and such a job, he'd
bring me through to his workshop and we'd talk out there for ages
about this and that. I got the feeling that he didn't really have a lot of
friends that he could really talk to. So that was probably why he confided
in me every now and again. There's nothing beats talking, is
there?"
"So they say," Garvey agreed.
"Did he seem unhappy at home?" Gibson pushed.
Donovan shook his head, looking bemused before replying: "Aye,
you know what it's like, love. It's a family life and, sure, you just get on
with it. He was devoted to his kids, I can tell you that. You see, you
have to realise some people, people like myself, who like to work out
in the open twelve months of the year, well, the truth is . . ." and here
Donovan stopped talking for a few seconds and looked like he was trying
to stare through the walls of his bungalow, "and I am speaking for
myself now, the truth is, we'd probably be wiser not to put down our
roots until we've got the sowing of wild oats out of our system. And
Jimmy would never complain about his missus, aye, but jeez she was
one right auld bag of nerves. The wains were all growing up great,
though, so they must have been doing something right."
Donovan stopped talking and looked towards Nuala Gibson as if
he'd overstepped the mark, obviously not used to being candid in
female company.
Packie said to Nuala, "Look, could you radio the station and see if
Starrett has left any instructions for us about our next call? We're nearly
done here, and I can finish up."
Gibson looked first to Packie as if to say, "Are you mad?" But spotting
the look of relief on Donovan's face, she said, "Yes, of course."
Without bidding goodbye to the builder, she opened the door and
stepped into the car.
Donovan and Packie walked slowly across the yard as Nuala
slammed the car door, perhaps just a little harder than was necessary.
Inside the house, the dog resumed its frantic barking.
"Look, erm, I just need you to know that you need to be candid
with me here. We're up against it here on this case, and if we're going
to find out what happened to James, we're going to need all the help
we can get."
"Aye, I understand, Packie, and you can count on me. I had a lot of
time for Jimmy. If he went into a job and they needed a wall-buster, he'd
always make sure I got the call. He'd say I could literally walk through
walls." Donovan paused and laughed at the memory. He nodded in the
direction of the garda car before continuing: "It's always a bit awkward
talking about this sorta stuff in front of women. They think the man's
always in the wrong, and that's just not always the case."
Again Donovan stared at the walls of his house.
"So, were Mr and Mrs Moore having problems at home?" Packie
asked, hoping he wasn't travelling this route too quickly.
Colm Donovan sucked in a mouthful of air, making a "whoa"
sound.
"You realise, of course, Packie . . . if Jimmy was still alive I'd never
breathe a word of this?"
"I know, I know," Packie said sympathetically.
"Good man," Donovan said, nodding. "Well, you see, Packie, here
you have my case in point: Nora Moore. Now, from what Jimmy said,
there was never any romance in that relationship. He wasn't slagging
her off, you understand; he was just stating fact. You know how it often
happens in the country: two people often get together because that's
what people are expected to do, have babbies who grow up and do the
same and have more babbies. But there's got to be something more,
hasn't there, Packie?"

"Ask me one on hurling, Colm," Packie replied, and meant it. "So,
Jimmy and Nora, were they about to split up or anything?"
"Well, if they'd lived in the city, they probably would have, but out
here in the sticks, we just have to grin and bear it, get on with life. Now
listen here, I don't want you to get the impression that Jimmy was
moaning about the missus all the time. In fact, if anything, I had to
drag it out of him. I'd say something like, 'What are you and Nora up
to for the weekend?' and he'd reply something like, 'I've got so-and-so
to do and she's doing so-and-so other.' And I'd say, "Don't you ever take
a break and go away for a romantic weekend?" And he'd laugh and say,
"Don't be stupid." I think their relationship was pretty primitive, physically
speaking, if you understand me. Packie, keep this under your hat,
but I wouldn't be surprised if the only three times they did have a ride,
she got pregnant."
"Oh, come on . . ." Packie protested, "and, ah . . ." he stammered,
searching for his question, "so then, ahm, what happened?"
"Well, jeez, didn't the fecking vicar's wife only go and seduce
Jimmy."
"Holy shit!"
"Quite possibly, Packie," Donovan laughed, "but as my eldest
daughter keeps saying all fecking day long, 'We don't need to go there.'"
"So how did it all start?" Packie asked.
"Well, first off, Packie, answer me this: have you ever seen the
woman in question, Mrs Amanda Morrison?"
"I'm sure I have, Colm. I just don't recall."
"Let me assure you, Packie, if you'd seen her, you'd recall. Aye, she's
built for speed not for comfort, that one. Oh my goodness, she's an
absolute stunner, and she ends up with First Minister Morrison! What's
that all about now?" Donovan spat out.
"People have hidden qualities, Colm."
"Aye, no doubt, but then why did she play away from home?"
Colm asked. "Mind you, from what Jimmy was saying, some of the
times she was even playing at home. In the library he was building for
them no less."
"Right, I don't think you need to draw me any pictures," Packie
smiled gently. "But to tell you the truth, from the little we've learned
about Moore, I'm surprised to hear you say he was boasting about it."
"Aye, I hear you. I was surprised myself, I suppose," Donovan continued
in between finding his cigarette packet, extracting one and lighting
up. "But he probably needed to tell someone about it, if only to
assure himself it was actually happening."
"Tell me, how long had this been going on?"
"Several months. Let see now, yes," Colm said exhaling a large trail
of smoke, which was blown away quickly by the wind circulating the
yard. "Jimmy was doing one of his bespoke fitted kitchens for Betsy Bell
in Rathmullan, and Betsy was all proud of her new kitchen. Anyway,
when Jimmy was in there working away, didn't Betsy only go and bring
Amanda Morrison in to see the grand work. Now, Jimmy was a modest
man. He was more being modest about himself than his work in this
instance, but according to Jimmy, Amanda and he got on well right from
that first day, socially speaking, of course. If a girl came on to Jimmy, he'd
run a mile. Mrs Bell didn't treat him as an employee, if you know what
I mean. She treated him like an artisan. Jimmy had to explain to me what
that word meant, by the way. It's a grand word, don't you think?"
"It is that," Packie replied.
"They'd shared a couple of cups of coffee with Betsy. Jimmy said it
seemed to him as that Amanda Morrison's visits were becoming more
and more frequent. He found it as easy talking to her as she seemed to
find it easy to talk to him. You see, to Jimmy, who was very much a
married man, there was never ever such a thing as a hidden agenda. He
was just talking to her as a friend, not trying to get anywhere with her.
Well, of course, that was only driving her absolutely mad. The more he
ignored her charms, the more she was attracted to him. Pretty soon she
started to drop in when Betsy wouldn't be there, and she'd stay and
they'd chat away as he worked. Jimmy said she'd do most of the talking
and he'd do most of the listening."
"Wasn't Betsy starting to become a little suspicious?" Packie asked.
"I mean, if only with how long Jimmy Moore was spending on the job."
"That's, of course, if she wasn't in on it," Colm Donovan said,
winking at the sergeant.
"Right, of course," Packie said, nodding to himself.
"Anyway, Betsy's kitchen was nearly finished when Amanda invited
Jimmy to quote for replacing the bookshelves in the library of the
Manse. Jimmy didn't think twice about it. He quoted fairly, as he
always did, and he got the job. That's when Jimmy started to notice that
Amanda was dressing a bit more provocatively in front of him, always in
the Manse, and always when the first minister was away on some business
or other. He says he'd be stealing a glance at her shapely legs or
maybe looking at her breasts, and when he worked his way up to her
eyes, she'd always be looking at him, with a big smile on her face. And
while all of this was going on, they were still having these amazing conversations.
She told him about her life. He never gave me the full details,
but he said that she was never scared to be totally honest with him. It
seemed to me that she knew Jimmy would never ever be the one to make
the first move, so she did."
"Right," Packie said.
"Jimmy didn't feel the slightest bit guilty. He hadn't set out to cheat
and, in his own words, he figured that if he had been having a full relationship
with his wife, the affair would never have started in the first
place."
"So it continued for a while, then?"
"Well, I guess so, but he stopped talking to me about her,"
Donovan replied.
"And, ah, have you any idea if anyone else knew about their
relationship? That is, apart from yourself?"
"I'd say there's a very good chance Betsy Bell knew all about it, but
if you're referring to the first minister, then, who knows? But sure he's
a shifty one all the same, needs a fair bit of watching."
"What about Jimmy's wife, Nora?"
"No chance."
"Tell me, did Jimmy mention Amanda Morrison at all when you
saw him last weekend at Herr Jahnke's?" Packie asked.
"Definitely not. You see, we were always around other people."
"How did he seem to you? Troubled?"
"Nah, not really. He seemed reasonably happy to be making an
extra bit of money over the weekend, but apart from that, there was
still a twinkle in his eye and an inch to his step," Donovan said as he
winked to the sergeant.
"Look, Colm, if you can think of anything else, anything else at all,
please give me a shout at the garda station in Ramelton."
"No bother," Donovan replied, "no bother at all."

"Right then," Nuala said, the moment Packie was back in the car.
"What did you get?"
"The deceased and Amanda Morrison were having an affair,"
Packie replied, thinking he'd been about to get his ear chewed off by the
young garda. "Look, sorry about that, I just felt that, well, you know .

"Of course I know, Sergeant," Gibson said, smiling sweetly as she
put the car in gear.


Chapter Seventeen



AT THE SAME time as Garvey and Gibson were making their way
back to Ramelton, Starrett was waiting in the Coffee Dock on
B-level of Letterkenny General Hospital. Although the Coffee
Dock was a pleasant-looking cafe, with modern steel and wood furniture
and soft-coloured walls, it smelled a little too much like the rest of
the actual hospital. Right outside the window beside which Starrett had
positioned himself, he could see ambulances come and go with frightful
regularity.
Since leaving Tower House, he'd replaced his jumper with a dark
blue blazer and matching tie. Passing the mirror in the toilet, Starrett
had caught himself nervously checking out his reflection before his
meeting with Dr Sam Aljoe. Perhaps the agitation he felt was simply
founded on the old familiar feeling he experienced each and every time
he entered a hospital?
Starrett hated hospitals.
He knew it was an irrational and childish fear, but he didn't care.
Starrett had examined his phobia many times during his life, and he'd
never managed to come up with a suitable explanation for it other than
that, statistically speaking, more people went into hospitals than ever
emerged alive.
"Oh my goodness," a gentle voice behind him said. "You're not
very happy in hospitals are you?"
"How'd you guess?"
"Your body language is screaming, 'Get me out of here!'"
"I'm that transparent, eh?" Starrett said, smiling and shuffling two
tablemats like cards. "I was hoping I could pull it off. I mean, hanging
around the ER didn't seem to do George Clooney any harm."
"I'd have cast you in more of a classic Paul Newman role."
"I'll take that as a compliment," Starrett replied, using the air of
someone who was happy to send himself up. He noticed with considerable
disappointment that the doctor had again gathered her long,
wild blond hair back into a ponytail. Otherwise, she was dressed as she
had been earlier in the day.
"It was, it was," she protested. "Can you bear to have a cup of coffee
here while we go through the autopsy? Apart from anything else, it's
by far the best coffee you'll find in Letterkenny."
"Ach, sure, go on then, I'm game for anything," Starrett replied,
enjoying the company.
"So I've heard," she said, disappearing in the direction of the
counter. She returned with two coffees and two Bakersville cakes.
"OK," she said, "down to business. Mr James Moore was a fine
specimen of a man, originally. To me it looked like someone tried to
break him, destroy his body. It would appear that whoever crucified
him didn't just want him dead; they wanted to . . . well, I have to say
that I've never examined a body in such a terrible state." She paused
and looked at Starrett, asking, "What?"
"Sorry, nothing." Starrett said sheepishly.
"It was, Starrett; it was something, I know that look." Dr Aljoe
laughed. "You're thinking, that's hardly medical information she's giving
me."
Starrett raised his right hand--crocked forefinger and all--in
protest.
"In this case, I thought if I merely listed all his injuries for you, it
wouldn't fully describe what went on here. It looks to me as if all of
the punishment was orchestrated to prolong his suffering during his
ordeal. In the end, though, it was his heart that gave out. There are
only two points here, beyond the obvious, which may be of help to
you. Firstly, both vinegar and sweat were present in his blood stream.
By virtue of his punishment, the sweat is not unusual. When his
system was collapsing, the sweat glands would have been leaking profusely.
But vinegar ..."
"Maybe his murderer was mocking him," Starrett offered. "Just like
when Christ was in his agony and he was offered vinegar to quench his
thirst. The same thing could have happened here. And the other
point?"
"The contents of his stomach suggest that he ate two full meals in
quick succession, neither of which had been digested fully."
"Oh," Starrett said, "that is interesting."
"Yes," she continued. "I found traces of chicken, beef, potatoes,
rice, green beans, carrots, red peppers and peas."
"Interesting," Starrett said. "Very interesting."
"Yes, that's what I thought," she replied. "I suppose it might suggest
James Moore had one meal somewhere, then had to pretend he
hadn't eaten and have another one somewhere else."
"Yes," Starrett said. "Eating two meals suggests to me that he sat
down with his family for their main meal. I'd hazard a guess at steak, peas,
carrots and potatoes, and then--from what I've learned about him, and
this is strictly off the record, Doctor--he went off and had a meal with
his mistress. This sounds as if it was something fancier, like chicken widi
some kind of sauce, rice with vegetables, which would account for the
peppers and beans. The second meal was him being sociable; the first was
to conceal the prearranged dinner with his mistress. Tell me, Doctor, how
long before his death would you say he had eaten?"
"Is that a subtle way of asking if I've determined the exact time of
death?"
"Sorry, no," Starrett replied. "No, actually I hadn't reached that
point. Right now I'm trying to set up a real-time diary."
"Oh, OK," she said smiling. "I have to work the other way. So, I
would say that by the time the body was discovered at 08.40, he'd been
dead for nearly three hours. And then we'd have to figure that, due to
all his body had been subjected to, his system wouldn't have been working
as efficiently as usual in breaking down the food, so I'd say that he
probably dined in the 18.00 to 21.00 time frame the previous evening.
I'm sure over 90 per cent of families sit down to dinner around that
time, so it's not exactly rocket science on my part."
"Quite, but none the less, the fact that he had two meals on
Thursday evening: that is a very important fact."
"Right," she said, closing her folder with a degree of finality. "Let
me return this to my office, freshen up a bit, and then you can take me
out to dinner."
"I'm game if you are," Starrett replied with a smile, which she
returned. "Tell you what, I could do with a breath of fresh air. Why
don't I meet you at the front door?"
"I won't be a mo," she said, practically skipping out of the Coffee
Dock.
As he wandered around to the main entrance of the hospital,
Starrett thought about the beautiful Dr Aljoe. He'd been aware of her
for eight months or so--ever since she'd come over to Letterkenny from
her native England, in fact. They'd met on official business several
times, but for some reason it had been different that morning in the
Second Federation Church. Perhaps he was reading too much into it,
as was often the case when it came to Starrett and girls, but she definitely
seemed to be more aware of him as a person than on the previous
occasions they'd met. Perhaps it was just that while viewing such a
horrific death, she preferred to occupy her mind elsewhere, and Starrett
had happened to be in her line of view.
Shuffling around outside the hospital entrance, Starrett spied a
vision exiting the doors behind him. Samantha Aljoe had changed out
of her black trouser suit into a pale blue dress. Starrett was trying to
work out the mechanics of how she could have squeezed into such a
garment when he noticed that she'd let her hair down again. It was a
magnificent mane, to be sure, and for a single split second, he imagined
she was out on the prowl and that he was her prey.
She took his hand and said, "Starrett, could you please do me a
favour and pick your jaw up off the ground, flattering and all as it may
be. I work here, and it could be embarrassing if one of my colleagues
were to witness this display of drooling."
"The single negative of being a woman," replied Starrett, "is that
she'll never be able to enjoy the vision of a woman the way a man can."
"Tell that to kd lang," Sam Aljoe said, interlocking her arm with
his and moving Starrett along from the pavement he appeared
frozen to.
"Well, all I can say is that she's very, very lucky."
"Yes, but what about her partner?"
"Now if I'd said that. . ." Starrett started.
Sam giggled wickedly. "Now where's this jalopy of yours?"
Six minutes and an illegal parking of his BMW later, they were sitting
at his favourite table under the blue lamp at the Yellow Pepper,
Starrett's favourite Letterkenny restaurant, on Main Street.
"So, our first date?" she said, sounding as if she might be teasing
him.
"Well, at the very least, we'll enjoy a bit of supper together,"
Starrett replied, not sure of what else he could say.
And enjoy a bit of supper together they did. Over a couple of glasses
of wine, after the plates had been cleared away, they discussed her
career: "Something to do that I could do."
Her move to Ireland: "London's tired and full of rude people. I was
worried that Dublin might be the same, so I was looking for something
in Belfast when I saw the advertisement for the Letterkenny job, and
here I am."
She'd taken a few years out to travel around the world, taking in
Australia, New Zealand (where she nearly stayed), the USA and Japan.
Starrett asked if she'd been travelling to get away from something.
"You mean a boyfriend, don't you?"
"Perhaps, perhaps not," he replied. "People also go on the run to
escape the law."
"Yeah, right, but nothing so exciting in my case. I'm afraid. I was
what my father referred to as an 'afterclap'."
"Your father's Irish, then?" Starrett said, "Afterclap is an Irish word,
but I'd always thought it referred only to a son who was born much
later than the rest of the family."
"Perhaps, but you know what fathers are like with their daughters.
Anyway, when I was growing up and becoming a teenager, my brother
was twenty-eight and married with two kids, and my sister also married
and presented three kids to the family by the time she was twenty-seven.
It wasn't that my sister was in an unhappy marriage; it was more that she
always felt that her life had been taken away from her. She'd wanted to
be a GP and had studied hard for it. She'd just passed all her exams and
was fully qualified when she met and married another GP, Joe. Within a
year, they had Joseph, and then Christina and Jonathan followed within
the next couple of years. My sister had always intended to return to her
practice, but there was always something with the kids that prevented
her. It wasn't exactly that Joe was a chauvinist who thought that the
woman's place was in the home, but he did want his wife at home bringing
up his kids." Sam Aljoe paused for a sip of wine.
She continued: "Ahm . . . well, the sad fact was that by the time I
was starting to date boys, my sister, who was just about to hit thirty,
genuinely felt that her life was over. She felt her only role in life now
was bringing up her children. And, well, I swore that I wasn't going to
end up the same way, so here I am thirty-three, and fancy free."
Starrett clicked his teeth. He wasn't meaning to dismiss her as a lost
cause, but that is exactly how it came across.
"OK, OK, Starrett, time out here," she protested. "Let me just say
that, if I'm being perfectly honest, yes it is possible to get married when
you are in your late teens and start a family and not feel you've been
deprived of your life."
"It's just that you couldn't figure out a way of doing it?" Starrett
asked.
"I think," she replied slowly, "for it to work, no matter what age
you are, one has to be with the right person."
"So, you don't think your sister . . ."
"No, no, no," she protested violently. "I mean, I think if it were to
happen all over again, she'd make all the same decisions."
"Right, so what you are saying is . . ."
"What I'm saying is that there are two types of relationship. There's
one where a boy and a girl get together because that's what boys and
girls do, and there's the other one where a boy and girl get together
because they absolutely were meant to be."
She seemed to grow a little distracted, as if she were considering
whether she should say what she wanted to say next.
"I'd like to go now," she said eventually.
"Sure, sure," Starrett said, signalling for the bill.
"Let's go Dutch," she suggested.
"There are no Dutchmen here," Starrett replied, drawing out his
wallet. "At least not yet, which means it must still be better over there
than it is here."
When he checked his watch, Starrett was surprised to find that it
was 10.40 p.m. and that they'd been in the restaurant for over three
hours. There was an awkward moment at his car. He didn't know
whether to suggest going on for a drink (she'd already said she rarely
had more than two glasses of wine), driving her home or driving her
back to her car. He was reluctant to let the evening end so he opened
the passenger door for her. She climbed in, making herself comfortable
with an off-white wrap she'd produced from her handbag.
Starrett was making a fuss putting on his seatbelt to delay the decision,
when Samantha broke the awkward silence. "OK, Starrett, you're
the native; take me somewhere beautiful."
"Not a bother," he replied, as they departed the illegal parking
space at quite possibly an illegal speed.
Twenty minutes, later they were walking in the moonlight on
Rathmullan beach.
The vastness and variety of the views, even at night, were truly
inspiring. They could see the lights of Buncrana flickering through the
haze, as well as the headlights on the far shore coming in and out of
view as vehicles passed trees and buildings. The creamy-white moonlight
twinkled off the water and a small flotilla of boats bobbing up and
down a few metres offshore. An occasional couple passed them, walking
in the opposite direction towards the pier, whose base was surrounded
by grotesquely ugly stone buildings, which Starrett devoutly
hoped were not long for this world, interfering busybodies permitting.
The skyline behind them was broken only by house lights spilling out
along the ridge.
But Starrett had the best view of all: he could see Dr Samantha
Aljoe.
Even the usual salty smells of the beach were softened by the doctor's
hypnotic scents.
Starrett and the doctor walked as far as they were able, down to
where the beach met the bridge that carried the Portsalon road.
All the time they were chatting about this and that, with Sam
doing most of the chatting. When they weren't talking, Starrett tuned
into the gentle lapping of the waves on the beach. The occasional
crunch of tiny shells beneath their feet acted as an alarm, ensuring that
they never drifted too close to the water's edge.
As they turned to walk back, Sam leaned across and kissed him
quickly and gently on the lips, saying, "Thanks for a great evening."
She pulled away before he could prolong the kiss, and they
continued walking. This time it was against the wind, which blew the
material of her dress tight against her thighs. Somewhere in the distance,
the unhealthy chugging of a wan engine echoed across the surface
of the water in the darkness.
They hadn't spoken since she'd kissed him.
"The thing I've found out about going out with Irish men is that
they either ignore you like they're scared they might break you, or they
want to maul you like you're a blow-up doll."
"Are you breakable, then?" he asked.
"Sorry?"
"Well, I know for a fact that you're not a blow-up doll--and I'd
also wish it to be taken into consideration in my defence that I've never
been involved with a blow-up doll--but I was just checking to see if
you were breakable."
She moved towards him, and, this time, their kiss was passionate.
Starrett was surprised by how responsive she was. He was also surprised
about how comfortable he was kissing a woman he hardly knew.
He'd always considered that kissing was a pretty strange act for human
beings to engage in, but Starrett found kissing Samantha Aljoe an
extremely pleasant experience.
They walked and talked and kissed until it was just too cold to
walk and talk and kiss any more.
"I dug out your file, you know," she said quietly when they were
sitting together in the car.
"Oh, feck these computers," he said with good humour. "OK, I'm
biting; what did you discover?"
"Oh, I found out that the gardai wasn't your first career."
"Nor even my second."
"So, what was the first one?
"That type of information is reserved for when we're much better
friends. I'm going to need to keep something hidden; otherwise there's
a good chance you might go off me too quickly."
"Which is much preferable to my jumping on you too quickly?"
He pulled her across the seat for another kiss.
She disengaged.
"We need to slow this down. It's going way too fast, and I need to
get to know you better. Now, you can drive me to my car, if you don't
mind. It's late and we both have work tomorrow. You need to find a
murderer, and I have a whole heap of cadavers to wade through."
"Not literally, I hope," Starrett joked as he drove in the general
direction of Ramelton.
After a minute or two, he said, "You were saying you needed to get
to know me better. Ask away."
She smiled and said, "I still need to figure out how you got to forty
five and remained single. You've never married?"
"Never did."
"You just never met the right person?"
"Maybe it was more a case of the right person at the wrong time."
"Girlfriends?"
"Aye a few, but then again, as Frank once sang, 'Too few to
mention'."
"Were all your girlfriends regrets?"
"Not a single one," he said, closing in on Ramelton and about to
pass his own house. "There's my place," he said, slowing down. "Do
you want to come in?" The minute the words had left his mouth, he
regretted uttering them. They sounded less like the genuine question
he'd intended and more like a cheap pick-up line.
* "I think I'd better be getting home, Starrett. Apart from which, I
never sleep with someone unless I've known them for at least a year.
That's an unbreakable rule."
Starrett was rather pleased to hear this.
"OK, fair play," he said. After a brief silence, he added, "This . . .
erm . . . year thing . . . can I get something knocked off that for good
behaviour?"
"Good behaviour, Starrett? I'll bet you don't even know the meaning
of the words," she said.
When they reached the Letterkenny General Hospital car park, he
walked her to her car. They had a brief goodnight kiss, and just as he
was about to walk off, she wound down her window and said, "Starrett,
of course you realise if you wanted to get technical with me, you could
claim that you'd already known me for eight-and-a-half months."

Chapter Eighteen



THE EARLY HOURS of Saturday weren't as clear and bright as the
previous morning had been. God and his angels were once
again emptying their watering cans over that particular corner
of Ireland. Most of the locals, while appreciating His good taste in
choosing Donegal, would have been far happier if he'd gone for County
Antrim instead.
When he arrived at Tower House at 08.20, Starrett was pleasantly
surprised to find that Sergeant Packie Garvey and Garda Nuala Gibson
had already left to interview James Moore's brother-in-law, Uncle
Dolphie.
Starrett took advantage of the peace and quiet of the lean-to they
called his office to write up his crime book. He religiously updated the
case-file of a current investigation every day. The thirty or so minutes
he stole every morning to undertake the task helped him keep on top
of the facts of the case.
As he finished jotting down that day's notes in his extremely legible
and beautifully formed handwriting, Starrett focused his attention
on Mrs Amanda Morrison.
He read Nuala Gibson's concise report on her and Packie's interview
with Colm Donovan the previous evening. Their visit to Agga at
the Manse hadn't been as productive. All they had learned was that
Agga didn't live in the Manse and she knew nothing about where
Morrison's wife was.
Amanda Morrison had to be at the centre of the case, whichever
104

PAUL CHARLES

way you looked at it. She wasn't currently at home and no one seemed
to know how to get hold of her. Starrett wondered why First Minister
Ivan Morrison wasn't at all concerned about his wife's disappearance.
Was there something to be learned from that?
Could Ivan Morrison have discovered that his wife was having an
affair with Moore and murdered both of them in a fit of anger? If so,
what could he have done with her body? Perhaps Starrett should be
looking for a search warrant to search the Manse. But if Ivan Morrison
was involved in two murders, why should he draw attention to himself
by crucifying one of the victims at his own house of worship? Surely he
wouldn't be so stupid. Or could it be a double bluff: "It couldn't possibly
be the first minister; he'd never have done that on his own doorstep"?
Even if Ivan Morrison was in the frame, how could he have carried
out the crucifixion in the first place? He was hardly a fit man, and
Starrett recalled that it had taken several soldiers, with the assistance of
members of the on-looking mob, to crucify Jesus Christ. If First
Minister Ivan Morrison had indeed been the killer and if he had needed
assistance, the caretaker, Thomas Black, must be high on the suspected
accomplice list. Black by name and dark by nature?
Morrison was a pompous SOB, but was he capable of murder?
Harbouring negative thoughts about someone was a long way from actually
taking their life. You have to be arrogant to want to murder someone,
to take on God's role and decide who should live and who should
die. But Starrett wondered if he hadn't focused on Ivan Morrison the previous
day simply because Morrison had been the first person he'd met at
the murder scene. Could the case have been so simple that he could have
solved it half an hour after the body had been discovered?
To have confronted the gardai in the church first thing would be a
pretty brazen act for a murderer. Was Morrison really that cold-blooded?
OK, Starrett told himself as he glanced around his packed, yet tidy,
office, hold that thought for a second. Could the fact that Amanda was
missing mean that Morrison had also murdered his wife? If Morrison
really had been that audacious and clever, and if he had murdered
James Moore for having an affair with his trophy wife, then surely he
wouldn't have needed to murder Amanda as well. Surely his revenge
would have been so much sweeter if she had to live with the responsibility
for her lover's death?
"Fair play," Starrett said to the four filing cabinets that occupied an
entire wall of his office. He stared at the poster above the cabinets; it
was of a 1959 green Jaguar Mark II, the same poster which had been a
fixture of his office back in London. The classic Jag was pictured driving
through lush countryside, and Starrett often used the poster as a
trampoline for his thoughts while working on an investigation.
He'd near enough convinced himself that Amanda Morrison was
still alive. But where could she possibly be? Betsy Bell had mentioned
an older sister, and Starrett wondered where she lived. Sisters may start
off their lives at each other's throats, but generally they tend to overcome
difficulties and become each other's friend and confidante.
Brothers, in Starrett's experience, generally became less close in later
years.

Starrett made a list on the next clean page of his notepad:

Betsy Bell
Amanda Morrison's sister
Thomas Black
Ivan Morrison

He tore off the page, folded it over and slipped it into the pocket of
the natty gabardine that hung faithfully on the back of his office door.
Starrett left his office with Amanda Morrison on his mind. He'd
known of her as the wife of First Minister Morrison, but he couldn't for
the life of him put a face to her name.


Meanwhile, Garvey and Gibson were driving over the Loughsalt
Mountains in the direction of Downings. They were so close to the rain
clouds, Garvey felt he could slip his hand through the car window and
squeeze out some water for himself, not that the clouds around
Donegal needed any help with their incessant task of ensuring the
greenness of the greenest county in the world.
Packie was preoccupied with making sure he could knock off by
13.00 as he had a 15.00 practice session for the following Sunday's
match against Armagh. If push came to shove and he wasn't finished on
time, he'd have no guilty conscience about staying on at work. His
garda career was his priority, and he knew that there were at least a
couple of reserves well capable at taking over his position on the hurling
field. Having said that, the gardai, particularly Major Newton
Cunningham, were very supportive of his sports career and bent over
backwards in order to accommodate his fixtures. But even that support
from on high still couldn't stop Packie from feeling awkward about the
rare Saturday matches.
"So, where's the action tonight, Nuala?" he asked, as they drove
down into Downings.
"Ach, you know, there might be some craic up at the Mountain
Top in Letterkenny, or there's a salsa night over in McDaid's Wine Bar."
"Aye, lock up yer sons; the girls are back in town," Garvey said as
they pulled up outside a house set high into the hill overlooking the
beach. The house had been built at a time when one cared not a hoot
how a house should look, and, Garvey guessed, back then it would have
been the only house on the hillside. Now it formed the centre of a small
and ever-growing village.
Before they had a chance even to get out of the car, the dark green
door of the house opened and the man himself, Uncle Dolphie, strode
defiantly out into the street. For someone with a name as nice and
friendly as Uncle Dolphie, he looked angry and bad-tempered. Garvey's
brain ran through a list of names until he figured out that Dolphie
could originally have been Adolph. Possibly pushing his late fifties with
long, wild hair, which looked as if it had never seen a comb, Uncle
Dolphie had chubby rosy cheeks and a whiskey-red nose. He was
dressed for sitting around the house all day long in brown threadbare
cords, a thick brown leather belt, a collarless shirt and a sleeveless Fair
Isle jumper moulded around a shape pregnant with many a pint of
Guinness. A pair of light blue slippers contrasted with the rest of his
masculine look.
"Right, lads," he barked as they exited the car. "Oops, sorry, miss,
it's so difficult to tell these days. But I want to know, have you caught
the bastard who ended Jimmy's life?
"Come on in out of the mizzle; we'll maybe find a bite of breakfast
for you. The both of you look like you could do with a bit of meat
on your bones. My good God, man, how do they expect wains like
yerself to catch murderers? No offence, but it takes a man to catch a
murderer."
The less-than-men followed the man into his Spartan abode. It was
like stepping back forty years. The only pictures on the walls were religious,
and the only furniture was either to sit on or to eat at. The rooms
were small but warm, very warm, which might have partly accounted
for Dolphie's permanently crimson complexion.
Willie Nelson was singing to the whole of County Donegal about
all the girls he'd known, spreading the word via Highland Radio. Uncle
Dolphie cut Willie off in his prime by clicking a switch.
The dog under the table was about to make a nuisance of itself, but
all it took was one stern, no-nonsense look from his master and he went
whimpering meekly away as though a banshee had entered the house.
"The wife is out at work, but I'm sure I can remember how to work
the rasher wagon. Take a seat there at the table," Dolphie ordered.
"So, Mr Cowan," Packie said, as the householder threw all manner
of food into the frying pan.
"Call me Uncle Dolphie; everyone else does," he said clearly.
"We wanted to talk to you about James."
"Stupid fecking prat," Dolphie said with his back now to the two
gardai. It was really hard to hear over the sizzling. The smells wafting
his way made Packie realise just how hungry he was.
"Why do you say that?" Nuala asked.
"Look, you have a man and a woman and they have a few wains. In
the Church's eyes that is sacrosanct; no one should ever get in the way
of that," Dolphie said, stopping his fussing over the frying pan for a few
seconds. He faced Nuala and looked her directly in the eye. "Look, can
I be really blunt here, without you getting all upset with me and going
off and reporting me to some liberal do-fecking-gooder."
"Yes, of course," Nuala replied. "Please feel free to say what you
want."
"OK, good," Dolphie replied, turning back to his masterwork.
"OK, as I was saying, in the Church's eyes the family unit comes first
and foremost, and everything that needs to be done is done to protect
it, right?"
Nuala nodded that she understood what he was saying, but equally
had the look of someone who might possibly not share his sentiment.
"Right, so outside of that, if you have an itch to scratch, you
scratch it. And no offence, Miss, I'm liberal enough in my ways to
know that this privilege should now also be extended to women as well,
although in my father's day . . . Anyway, that's got no relevance here.
Now I will admit that my wife's sister is not exactly a picture. I've never
really known how she managed to snare the quare fella, Jimmy Moore,
in the first place. Jimmy's problem was that he always blew with the
wind. He'd got the backbone of a jellyfish. At the same time, though,
if things got out of hand in the pub, well, you'd not find a better man
to stand beside you. But sure Nora and Jimmy made the match, but
then doesn't she just go and let herself go to seed. Jeez, for heaven's sake,
what does it take to apply a bit of make-up to one's beak, have your hair
done a couple of times a year? Eh, answer me that. And why couldn't
she have dressed up every now and again, for heaven's sake? I mean, a
civil turn-out at the very least for the Christmas turkey would have
been a start."
"I can hear what you're saying," Gibson said, clocking Dolphie's
hair and dress sense.
"But anyway, Peggy keeps saying that Nora's clinically depressed. I
mean, what have any of us got to be happy about? I'll admit from time
to time I'm depressed myself, but that's not good enough for Nora; no,
she's got to be clinically fecking depressed. Now, in Jimmy's defence, he's
not the type of bloke who's out chasing skirt every night. And you know
what?" Dolphie said as he took two clean plates from a rack in front of
him. The statement hung in the air as Dolphie laid out two very appetising
breakfasts, complete with toasted soda-breads--the butter, deliciously,
melted into them--and two life-invigorating cups of tea.
"Go on?" Packie replied, more than slightly distracted by the sight
and smells before him.
"Well, I'll tell you what: I bet you anything you want that he'd
never been unfaithful before in his entire life."
"So, tell me," Garvey asked. "What happened to change all of
that?"
"Well, Packie, I'll tell you exactly what happened. God created this
Jezebel and gave her the perfect body and sent her to the minister of
that excuse for a religion. I mean, come on, please! The Second
Federation Church; it's no more than a glorified cooperative or a credit
union, that's what it is. The only difference is that they don't pay out
any interest; they collect it, and not on a plate, mind you, but in a
bloody bucket. Anyway, this head-the-ball Ivan Morrison is obviously
not what you'd call interested in women. He's only interested in the
glory of being a very big fish in a small pond. So, what does the devil's
temptress do? I'll tell you what she does; she fornicates with every man
she meets. Jimmy wasn't the first, nor even the first builder for that matter,
but he was quite possibly the most decent soul she met and she had
to corrupt him too. As upholders of the law, you know this better than
most, but when you go against the order of the universe, you upset
some kind of equilibrium, and the ripples this causes tend to have far
reaching effects. That's what happened here."
"Right," Nuala Gibson replied. "And how did you know all of this
was going on?"
Dolphie laughed. "Oh, come on, it was obvious. Jimmy was acting
like the cat with the proverbial spilt cream, and Mrs Morrison was
the only bitch on heat spilling cream around these parts."
"He never spoke to you about it?"
"Never. Come on now, Packie, I hear you're pretty quick around
the hurling field, but you need to be a bit quicker on this one. I'm married
to his wife's sister. He's never going to talk about this stuff with
me. But I've got eyes and ears and I've got a nose. I can suss out what's
going on."
"And have you any idea who might have murdered James Moore?"
"Hello! By this time even the village idiot knows who murdered
Jimmy Moore?"
"And who would that be?"
"Why the first minister himself, Ivan Morrison," Dolphie said
through mock laughter. "It's easy, kids. The man who soiled
Morrison's trophy wife had to pay for it with his life. Jeez, I wonder
if that Major Newton Cunningham would ever consider giving me a
job in the gardai?"

Chapter Nineteen



Major Newton Cunningham was proving that he still had
a bit of a flair for detective work himself.
Once Starrett had finished writing up his crime book, he
went off to chat with Thomas Black. He hoped that, among other
things, the caretaker might also be able to shed some light on the first
minister's sister-in-law.
However, before he could leave Tower House, Starrett happened
upon the major, who was making a surprise Saturday-morning visit.
"Ah, Inspector, the very man. I was trying to reach you yesterday
evening, but your mobile phone wasn't taking messages," Newton
Cunningham said, his rich baritone voice ringing out over the reception
area. "I think I might have located your Amanda Morrison."
"Really?" Starrett, replied, not feeling as guilty as he should have
about turning off his phone while gallivanting with Dr Aljoe.
"Yes, pretty elementary stuff," the major said in an absentminded kind of way. "After we spoke, I decided that there would be no time like
the present to drop in on Betsy Bell. Starrett, she's such an agreeable
woman. There was a time I would have attempted to induce her to collaborate
on the sin of intimacy. However, these days I'm content just
to share a cup of tea with her and admire her from the distance of a few
decades. Mum's the word to the current Mrs Newton Cunningham."
"Indeed."
"Anyway, it would appear I caught her unawares."
"Really?"
"No, no, dear boy, nothing as tacky as that, but I believe that just
before I'd arrived she'd been enjoying a cup of coffee with a friend."
"How do you know that?"
"Well, there was a spare cup of coffee steaming away when I went
in, for one thing. The telltale lipstick around the rim was a bit too
vibrant even for most bountiful Donegal women. And there was a distinctive
smell of perfume other than that of Mrs Bell in the room.
Betsy's always been a stickler for tidiness, and the living room looked
like a couple of students had been camping out therein. Hanging on
the hallstand was a waisted jacket, much, much too petite for Betsy. No
excuses were made, nor did the mystery woman return for her cup of
coffee. As far as I'm aware, there's only one person involved in this case who could be termed as missing. Starrett, I do believe if you go down
there now, you'll find Mrs Morrison in residence. I did try to be as discreet
as possible in my examination of the facts. I pretended I was a
doting old fool, not even sure which day it was. I think I play that part
quite well. If I were you, though, I'd get down there as quick as lightning.
I do believe you'll still be able to surprise them. Ladies of leisure
do like to behave leisurely and never, ever commence a journey before
they've had their breakfast."

Chapter Twenty



STARRETT, GREEN FELT hat in hand, nabbed the first member of his
team he came across, Garda Francis Casey, and soon they were rattling
over the noisy manhole covers on the Rathmullan road.
Starrett liked Casey. He was like the poor relation to golden boy
Packie Garvey. Not that local hurling champion Garvey took advantage
of his boyish looks and high-profile coverage on the sports pages,
but even he would have had to admit that he benefited from both.
Local boy Francis Casey, on the other hand, was happy, maybe even
preferred, to remain in the background and get on with the job in
hand: solving crimes. Starrett admired his ability to get to grips with the
facts of a case extremely quickly. Casey would talk about the crime in
question to Starrett, or any of his other colleagues, until the cows came
home, but he seemed somewhat reluctant to socialise with the team.
Fair play to you, Starrett thought, as they pulled into Betsy Bell's driveway.
Loners tended to be thinkers, and you couldn't have enough of
them working on your side on any investigation.
After Starrett had knocked on the front door, he was sure he heard
someone whispering inside. Betsy Bell opened the front door and spotted
Casey's uniform before her emerald eyes honed in on Starrett, who
was unconsciously rolling the wide brim of his green hat through his
fingertips.
If Betsy was nervous, she showed no sign of it. She wore a red,
floor-length dressing gown, which she had pulled tighter around herself.
Truth be told, apart from her fake tan, she looked nearly as good
without make-up as she undoubtedly did with it, although her hair was
in desperate need of attention.
"Oh my goodness, Starrett," she said, rolling her eyes and trying
self-consciously to maul her hair into some sociably acceptable form, "I thought you would have realised by this stage in your life that a
gentleman never ever calls on a lady before she's had a chance to put on
her face."
"Ah now, Betsy, you'll get no complaints from us on that front,"
Starrett began, flashing one of his biggest smiles. "It's just that we've a
few more questions for you."
"Come on in, then," she said, albeit reluctantly. "See yourselves
through to the conservatory. You know the way, Starrett. If you'll just
give me a few minutes, I'll be with you presently."
And a few minutes was exactly all she needed to transform herself
into her familiar public image.
"So, what's new on the case?" she said, not bothering to hide her
impatience.
"Well," Starrett sighed, "I was wondering if you'd spoken to First
Minister Morrison since we spoke yesterday?"
"No, why, what's happened?" she asked, rolling her eyes. "For
goodness sake, man, this is not downtown Los Angeles, it's Ramelton,
so there's no need to try to create an air of mystery that's not there."
"I was just wondering if you'd heard from Mrs Morrison yet?"
"Actually, now you come to mention it, she hasn't telephoned or
texted me for a while," Betsy said, smiling sweetly. "So, you're telling
me she hasn't turned up yet?"
Starrett ignored her question, "Would you have any idea where she
might be?"
"I wouldn't know where to start. Has Ivan no idea?"
"Not so far. What about her older sister, the one you were friends
with in university?"
"Oh, you mean Jean? She and her husband and kids moved to
Scotland about fifteen years ago. He got a job with a developer finding
High Street retailers for shopping malls. It's very American, but it does
seem to be the thing. Even Derry has one now."
"Well, you can fly Derry to Glasgow in under an hour, so I suppose
it wouldn't be outside the realms of possibility," Starrett said,
appearing to go through the process of the journey mentally. "Tell me,
would you have Jean's telephone number by any chance?"
"I do, as a matter of a fact," Betsy said, nipping into the main part
of the house and returning almost immediately with her handbag.
Starrett never ceased to be amazed by what women carried around
in their handbags. It wasn't always an efficient system, because Betsy's
bag was overflowing. First she removed her Filofax, placed it on the
table in front of her, and then she proceeded to search high and low in
her bag for exactly the same vital item of communication and social
interfacing. Eventually, just as she was starting to progress into Ulster
speak swear words, she spotted the offending Filofax on the table and
tutted as she said, "Oh, silly me, it was here all the time. Now, let's see,
Jean . . . and what on earth was the husband's name? Oh yes, Alexander.
Jean Alexander--here it is."
Starrett nodded to Casey for him to take down the number.
Betsy looked as if she were bracing herself for the next question.
"So, Betsy, you didn't tell me Mrs Morrison was having an affair
with the deceased?"
"I did say that ladies never ever tell, didn't I? Perhaps Eileen
McLaughlin has been proving what I've suspected all of these years-- that she's no lady."
"Well, I'd prefer to take the more charitable view that she was proving
she was a law-abiding citizen, prepared to help us with our
enquiries."
"I'd say more likely she was jealous that Mandy got to James first,
but that's another story."
"Well, look here, Betsy," Starrett said, rising to his feet, "you obviously
don't know where Mrs Morrison is . . . but at least we now have
this lead of her sister to check, so we'll be leaving you."
Starrett couldn't tell whether it was Betsy Bell or Garda Francis
Casey who was the more surprised. He certainly knew which of the two
was the most relieved.
Betsy Bell could hardly contain herself as he said, "It's fine, Betsy,
we know our own way out. Thanks for the number."
"Toodaloo then," Betsy said, plucking at her hair in an attempt to
make it plump out.
When Starrett reached the door, he quietly slipped back the catch

on the Yale lock. Once back in the car, he asked Garda Casey to drive
100 yards down the road and pull into a lay-by.
About three minutes later, Starrett said theatrically, "Oh my goodness,
Francis, I've only gone and left my hat in Betsy's conservatory.
Hold on here; I'll only be a second."
Just as the sun broke through the clouds for the first time that
Saturday morning, Starrett knocked loudly on Betsy Bell's unlocked
front door.
"Excuse me, excuse me," he called, pulling open the door and moving
slowly inside. "Is anyone at home? Oh hello, Betsy, it's only Starrett.
I'm afraid I've forgotten my hat, I believe it's in here . . ."
All the while, he was edging closer and closer to the conservatory.
"Yes, I was sitting over there by the window," Starrett continued, ignoring Betsy who, with coffee cup midway to mouth, was speechless.
"Oh, hello, ladies, sorry to disturb you. I won't be a moment. I'm sure
it's over here . . . yes, here it is . . . you see . . ." and he pointed to a tag
inside the hat, ". . . there's my name: 'Starrett'."
"I bet your mother taught you always to name-tag your clothes,"
Betsy Bell said, rising to her feet. Her other visitor stood up at the same
time.
"Aha," Starrett exclaimed, pantomime style, "and you must be the
missing Mrs Amanda Morrison."
"And from the name on your hat tag, you must be Inspector
Starrett," the mystery woman said, using a dainty lace handkerchief to
dab bloodshot eyes and a running nose.

Chapter Twenty-One

"I'll TELL YOU what, Betsy, why don't you make a fresh pot of
coffee and perhaps root out a few slices of that home-baked
wheaten bread you're famous for. Then, when you've done that,
perhaps you could take a dander down the road and hook up with
Garda Casey and maybe show him the locals sights, as you tell him
what's really been happening over the last twenty-four hours."
"Aye, and what did your last servant die of, Starrett?" Betsy asked,
before sheepishly making her way out of the conservatory.
"Oh, hadn't you heard?" Starrett mumbled after her. "Why, it was
disobedience, of course."
This served to bring the slightest hint of a smile to Mrs Morrison's
face, which is exactly what Starrett had being intending. He wanted to
see if she was really as beautiful as people had told him, something that
has so far been obscured by a permanent frown.
Hearing about someone's alleged beauty before you meet them
does tend to prejudice the viewer, Starrett thought. To him, Amanda
Morrison's mouth was too wide, her nose too small, and her eyes
appeared unsymmetrical, but she did have a figure to absolutely die for.
Her Jackie Kennedy-style trousers showed off, to great effect, her shapely
legs and wonderful bum. Starrett could feel the blood pumping
involuntarily through his body to destinations in need. Said locations--due
to the excesses of his imagination--were demanding more
than his forty-five-year-old body had in reserve.
Her skintight T-shirt made imagination redundant.
Yes, she did have a large mouth; yes, her nose was too small; and
yes, her eyes definitely were on a different horizontal plane; but with
her expert make-up and Amazonian hairstyle, she was definitely using
her given flaws to superlative effect.
And yet beneath it all, there was something very, very vulnerable
about the woman. Starrett cautioned himself to keep an open mind and
not to start feeling sorry for Amanda Morrison until he'd at least heard
her side of the story.
Surprisingly, she seemed happy to talk to him, extremely happy.
Perhaps she was just incapable of holding in any longer what had been
happening over the previous twenty-four hours.
"Well . . ." she began with a sigh, after a sip of the fresh coffee,
which Betsy had delivered with the requested toast. "Where to begin?"
Starrett, halfway through a mouthful of delicious wheaten bread,
flamboyantly offered up the palm of his hand in an "it's up to you"
gesture.
"OK, from the beginning then; stop me if I'm too boring or
anything."
Starrett pondered on the "or anything" for a split second as she
struggled to begin.
But the words didn't come immediately. Starrett washed down the
remains of his toast with a cup of scalding coffee, burning the roof of
his mouth in the process, and said, "Betsy's a good woman, isn't she?"
"Yes," Amanda replied cautiously.
"How long have you known her?"
"Oh, years and years. She was Jean's best friend; Jean is my sister,
of course, and we were all at Queen's, at the same time. I was a couple
of years behind, and I kinda latched on to them when I started. They
were very protective of me. My sister said she wanted to save me from
all the hairies, as she called them, yet didn't she only go and marry one
herself, Gary Alexander? He was from Scotland, and he was always
hanging around the Student Union helping out with concerts. Jean
began seeing him just so that we could get free passes for the shows.
Anyway, they grew quite serious, and that's when I became better
friends with Betsy. I guess I filled the gap in her social life when Jean
became attached to her man. Jean and Gary married, and they're still
together in northern England."
"Where in England?" Starrett asked.
"Carlisle. He does a lot of travelling in Scotland and northern
England."
Carlisle, Starrett thought: at least there was an excuse for Betsy's
apparent lie. Many people considered Carlisle to be part of Scotland.
"Betsy and I have remained firm friends ever since. We've both had
our ups and downs in the meantime and have had plenty of occasions
to need the other's shoulder to cry on."
"What did you do between university and meeting and marrying
the first minister?" Starrett asked. He was intrigued by her accent and
quirky voice; it was as though they didn't really go together. Starrett
pegged it as a cross between Marilyn Monroe's whisper and Juliet
Tumei's distinctive singing voice.
"Oh, my goodness, how long have you got?"
"As long as it takes."
"OK," Amanda sighed. "Let's see . . . Jean was the first to pair off;
she went and married Gary. As I've already told you, they were married
and live happily ever after. The rest of us weren't so lucky. Betsy moved
to Dublin to work for a charity organisation. She threw herself into
that heart and soul. She had an affair with a co-worker. It was one of
those bizaire situations where he was in love with someone else who
wasn't interested in him; so when he was feeling dejected, he'd take
comfort in Betsy's arms. Betsy eventually wised up, but not before he'd
married the object of his affections. Men are like that, you know,
Inspector. Sometimes they just won't give up. And it's not that we feel
that's an attraction. It's more that you tend to feel, 'Well, at least I know
how much he wants to be with me, so at the very least it means he'll
stay with me.' Betsy then met and married Billy Bell. He was an older
man. They found this house together, you know, and lived here happily
for years until, about five years ago, he just upped and died. No real
reason. He was healthy enough, he hadn't been ailing, but he died. The
doctors would say nothing more to her than that his heart gave up on
him. Betsy and Billy were relatively happy. I mean he never cheated on
her, or anything like that, but he was a quiet wee man, and Betsy loves
to be the life and soul of the party. Anyway, she was well provided for
in his will, and she's remained single ever since."
Amanda paused, as if in reflection, and Starrett tried to divine
where she had drifted off to. Then she continued: "Anyway, when Betsy
was off on her adventures, I was still at university. I finished a couple
of years after her. I wanted to go into politics. That was until I discovered
the politics of going into politics. I tell you, those Hollywood casting
couches are nowhere near as busy as the ones at Stormont.
Eventually, and I do mean eventually, I got a job with Guinness in their
PR department. That was great fun. I had a great boss. He didn't care
what hours I worked as long as I worked the hours. He treated me as
an equal. I was there for five years, but I have to admit, all that nonstop
action just wore me out. I retreated to my parents' house in
Strabane to recharge my batteries. Relationships were few and far
between, really just a series of one-night stands. When Betsy moved
down here with Billy, I started to come down for weekends. At that
stage I was working for the Irish Tourist Board, Bord Failte. The pay
wasn't great, but neither was the work taxing. I met a man called ... it
doesn't really matter what his name was, you probably know him ... I
thought we'd get married, I really did, and then, just when I was starting
to worry about not really being in love with him, he dumped me
and married his childhood sweetheart who he'd met, he said, at a school
reunion. I can't abide all that stuff of looking up old boyfriends and
girlfriends just because your current life is a romantic disaster. Hello, if
it didn't work out back then, you can be sure as hell it didn't work out
for a good reason. I had an affair with a married man for three years-- another disaster. I was still convinced that I was going to meet Mr
Right, just like our Jean had, and settle down and have a family and live
happily ever after. Eventually, in order to save my sanity, I gave up on
that dream.
"Then Billy Bell introduced me to Ivan Morrison. Billy was a member
of the Second Federation Church, and I believe he was one of the
elders. Anyway, erm, to cut a long story short, Ivan respected me, treated
me as a very special person. I knew he'd never make any demands on
me, and, I'll be perfectly blunt with you, I knew he wasn't a poor man
and that he'd refuse me nothing. And you know what? I was getting to
the age where it was quite pathetic really still to have to be working in
order to earn a living. I mean, it's perfectly fine to be working in something
worthwhile or interesting to occupy yourself, but it's very depressing
if you have to depend on your salary to get by and have to be nice
to people to keep your job. I'll tell you something, Inspector, you'd be
shocked by the number of men in positions of power who still think it's
their God-given right to, at the very least, enjoy a grope from favoured
members of staff. I know that I have a figure that attracts that kind of
attention, but my husband has never once treated me as a sex object.
I'm not sure he even knows what one is."
She paused again and sighed. "But I have to admit, I was naive;
you can't be relatively young and healthy and enjoy a sexless marriage.
Sorry, sorry, sorry, of course I meant a loveless marriage," Amanda said,
her voice rising to a pitch of heightened excitement.
Starrett said nothing; he was still reflecting on another part of her
statement.
"Sorry, sorry," continued Amanda. "Anyway, by the time I hooked
up with Betsy again, she was great mates with Eileen McLaughlin, and
after I married we all hung out together. My husband seemed happy for
me to do as I liked. He didn't need me to cook or clean the house. He
had a cook and a cleaner. He didn't really seem to need me around full
stop, so I'd . . . well, Inspector, I'll admit to you that I had my needs. I
believe I was respectful of my husband at all times in that I was discreet.
Mostly we had girls' weekends and flings in Belfast, Dublin and
London, and maybe if you put burning matches under my fingernails,
you'd get me to admit that I had one or two relationships around here,
but no one seemed aware of them. And then I met Jimmy at Betsy's
house, where he was doing some work for her, and it was like 'Hello,
where has this man been all my life?' Oh my goodness, yes, I'll also
admit that Jimmy awoke feelings in me I thought had been buried for
ever!"
"Did Betsy know about you and Jimmy from the start?"
"Well, it was that old cliche where neither James nor I actually
saw it creep up on us. First off, I just loved the way he created things
out of wood. Yes, yes, of course I thought he was cute. He always kept
himself in great shape, but that wasn't important. I was just intrigued
by this quiet man who wasn't showing the slightest bit of sexual interest
in me. He said he wanted to find out about me, and he'd just work
away, and I'd sit in a chair nearby talking away with him all the time.
He'd get upset when I'd tell him how men had always been taking
advantage of me, but you know what, a lot of men used to do that just
so they could take advantage of me. But it was like he didn't even consider
that as a possibility. I swear to you, it didn't even enter
his head.
"We talked about things he'd never discussed with anyone before.
It wasn't that he was harbouring all these big secrets; it was more that
he just didn't have the kind of relationship with his wife that he could
discuss things with her and talk about his dreams and his fears. He was
particularly proud of how Chris, his eldest, was turning out, but he felt
he couldn't share his joy fully with his wife. Jimmy was incredibly
funny, in a subtle way. He wasn't crass; he didn't know how to be.
"I found myself falling deeply in love with him. Really in love, like
I'd never been ever before. I was seeing someone at the time, and I
broke it off because of my feelings for Jimmy. It was very messy. I figured
the only way I could express my love for Jimmy was in a physical
way, and I wanted to be free emotionally to pursue that. I knew he'd
never make the first move--I doubt if he even fantasised about doing
anything about it, so I had to take the lead. To be quite honest, I was
afraid I'd scare him off, that he'd run a mile. The only encouragement
he ever gave me was to say things like how he couldn't wait to see me
again, and that he really loved talking to me. I was so consumed with
love for him, though, that I just had to be with him. So, I chose a day
when my husband was away on a conference. By this time, Jimmy was
in the Manse every day, working in the library. I fortified myself with
a stiff whiskey, and I walked into the library, in the middle of all of his
wood and stuff, and said to him, 'I'm sorry, but I just have to do this.'
And I put my arms around him and kissed him."
Amanda Morrison stopped talking and looked deep into Starrett's
eyes, holding his gaze for what seemed like an age.
"Inspector Starrett, in telling you this I'm being as honest as I know
how to be. I know I'm risking ridicule and shame, but I need you to
know exactly how all this happened and what it meant to me. I need
you to realise that it wasn't a quick lay, a shag, ride or whatever you'd
like to call it. There was nothing cheap about what I experienced with
Jimmy, and I hope by telling you this, it will help you discover who
took away from me the dearest man I have ever known."
Starrett nodded that he understood.
She smiled.
"We kissed for ages. He said he'd being dying to kiss me since the
first time we'd talked. He said kissing was all he needed, that he wasn't
looking for anything else. The more he said things like that, the more
I was convinced that I had to give myself totally and utterly to him.
Jimmy Moore was the only good thing that ever happened in my life.
I know it was selfish, but I felt that up to that point in my life I'd never
fulfilled my dreams. Do you realise how frustrating that can be? To go
through your life, year in and year out, feeling like you've always been
cheated, always being treated like dirt. Do you realise how destructive
that can be to one's soul? Then suddenly something good had happened
in my life. Someone special had come along. It wasn't like he was
married and I was married and we were both about to cheat. It was
much bigger than that: we'd both felt cheated in the marriage stakes,
but that didn't matter because we'd found each other. And I really wanted
to fulfil my dream, just once. Once would have been enough.
Eventually, I led him upstairs to my room, and I won't embarrass you,
Inspector Starrett, by telling you everything that happened, but I can
tell you, it just felt like the most natural thing in the world."
Starrett hoped the colour rising in his cheeks wasn't noticeable.
"It was wonderful, but of course that once just wasn't enough. So
we stole time together whenever we could. But we knew that it wasn't
going to be just a torrid affair, so we started to plan a way to have a life
together, and then ..."
She stopped for a moment to compose herself, refusing to break
down into tears. It seemed to Starrett that she felt the information she
was passing on to him was vital to his investigation.
"The last time . . ." she began, but again faltered. Starrett reached
over and rubbed her back awkwardly. "The last time I saw him was on
Thursday night. Ivan was at a dinner in Derry, so I had James over. I
cooked him a meal. We had a great evening. We made our plans to be
together and ... I kissed him for the last time in the doorway of the
Manse."
This time, Amanda couldn't contain her tears, and she began sobbing.
Starrett took her in his arms and she responded by holding on to
him tightly--so tightly, it seemed as though her life depended on his
support.
Through her sobbing she kept repeating, "Why?"
Starrett understood that she had the added burden that her grieving
was without the cloak of widowhood that made it socially acceptable.

Starrett had more questions for Amanda Morrison, but he could see
that she was in no state to talk about anything, let alone the death of
the man she had considered her soulmate.
The inspector took his hat, which was, in fact, a Major
Cunningham cast-off, and went in search of Betsy Bell and Garda
Francis Casey. They were at the front garden gate, where Betsy was
blethering away like she was a schoolgirl on her first date.
"How did you get on?" Betsy asked, walking up the garden path
towards him and simultaneously pulling her micro-jumper tightly
around her.
"Aye, I think we need to take a break for a while. She's very upset
at the moment."
All three stood speechless for a few seconds, taking in the air, lost
in their thoughts.
"Look, I have to go back into Ramelton to attend to a few things,"
Starrett said. "Do you think she'll be OK with you for a while? I'd prefer
if no one else knew she was here, not even her doctor, if possible.
But if you feel she needs medical . . ."
"No, she'll be OK, Starrett. I've got the very pick-me-up in my
medicine cabinet."
"Who else knows she's here?"
"Just you and Francis here, and the major I shouldn't wonder,"
Betsy replied.
"OK, let's keep it that way for now," Starrett said, setting off
towards his car.
"You don't think she's in any kind of danger, do you?" Betsy said
behind him, glancing around her pastoral grounds as if there was a
chance of imminent danger in the undergrowth.
"At this stage I don't know, but I'd prefer not to take any chances.
Best-case scenario, I'd like to spare her from being door-stopped by the
press. I noticed a few shifty-looking strangers down on the Mall as we
were leaving. I'll be back within the hour. Give us a shout if you need
help in the meantime."

"You see, Francis, I told you your mobile number would come in
handy," Betsy Bell said, smiling sweetly at Garda Casey. Then the smile
disappeared from her face as she thought of her distressed friend inside
the house. She hurried inside without uttering another word.

Chapter Twenty-Two





BACK IN CARRIGART, Nuala Gibson and Packie Garvey were busy
searching for Daniel McGuinness. Having gone door to door
without a definite address to work with, once they'd tracked
down their man, they were annoyed to find that he lived in the very
first house they'd visited.
It was on the plains, just off the sand dunes on the Carrigart to
Downings road, a long, dark, sprawling, single-storey building, fronted
by a short driveway, which was dotted with trees and bushes in a
vain attempt to shelter it from the cutting winds and rain.
When Gibson and Garvey first called at the house, Dan was still in
bed, and none of his children were allowed to tell callers he was in. Dan
the Man, half-man, half-mattress, hated leaving slumberland for nosy
house-callers, strangers or members of the several local authorities he
was trying to avoid. He loved nothing better than to luxuriate in his pit.
Well, actually, that wasn't strictly accurate. What he really loved more
than anything else were his several daily meals.
By the time Gibson and Garvey returned from their fruitless search
of several locations in Carrigart, Dan the Man had been helped from
his sleeping quarters at the back of the house and was positioned on his
throne: a two-seater, high-backed sofa, the legs of which had been telescoped
an additional fifteen inches by using a log under each leg. The
sofa, obviously for his exclusive use, was positioned dangerously close to
the blazing fire. Daniel McGuinness sat like a Buddha. His head was of
such proportions that it looked as if someone had painted a youngish
man's face on to a huge melon. It was impossible to ascertain where the
folds of his belly ended and his legs began. Both hands were crossed in
front of him and rested on a walking stick, so sturdy that it looked like
a telegraph pole-in-waiting. He made his furniture seem as if it had been
impounded from a doll's house. The overall effect, with his loose-fitting
and expensive-looking black clothes, was quite sinister.
There were several children running around, creating an almighty
racket until Dan the Man cracked his stick on the tiled hearth a few
times, in the manner of a lion-tamer. Within ten seconds, the room
was totally cleared apart from the gardai and Dan the Man.
"I heard you were looking for me in Carrigart," Dan said, his bass
voice gritting objectionably with his North Coast bucolic accent.
"Yeah, we went into Carrigart all right," Garvey replied. "It was
closed."
"Hag, hag, hag," Dan the Man chuckled, his throat-tickle sounding
like a low foghorn. "Funny line, young Garvey, I like it. I must use
that. I need to write these things down in case I forget them," he grunted
in a very patronising manner.
Garvey, ignoring Dan's attempt at humour, drew out his notebook
and said, "Mr McGuinness, we are here to ask you about your friend,
James Moore."
"Yeah, I figured you'd be here sooner or later," the big man
grunted. Every word he uttered sounded like a grunt, and a grunt that
required a lot of energy at that. He removed his right hand from its
perch on the stick and rubbed his upper thigh, or it may have been his
lower torso, continuing his slow back-and-forward motion. Garvey felt
himself becoming fascinated with it. He wondered if it was the fat
man's method of getting at least some circulation going in his body.
"We believe you were a good friend of James Moore?"
"Yeah," he grunted. "We played tennis together every weekend."
Gibson looked as if she were about to say "Really?" when Dan the
Man burst into a potentially life-threatening fit of laughter. Garvey
really was worried about the man's safety, as he coughed and spluttered
dangerously.
"Perhaps you want to write that one down?" Dan chuckled once
his laughter and resulting body-ripples had slowed down to a mere wobble.
"I'm one step ahead of you there," Garvey countered.
"Yes, sorry, only kidding," he mumbled. "Yeah, Jimmy was a good
mate. Have you figured out what happened yet?"
"We're still looking into it," Gibson said. "How did you know
him?"
"Ah," McGuinness replied with a huge sigh, "we used to work
together That was about five years ago, before my accident. I fell from
some scaffolding on a refurbishment job we were doing up in
Dunfanaghy--a school. Thank goodness it was a school, so I was covered
on the insurance. I was hoaking away at a chimneystack on the
fitst floor. I was pulling at this stone, and it came out a lot easier than
I thought it was going to, and it came down on top of me and I fell
back on to the floorboards. They kind of broke my fall, but they were
rotten, and so I went right through and landed on the ground floor.
Jimmy clocked this, ran over with a large piece of scaffolding and held
it against the collapsing wall until a few other workers were able to pull
me out of the way. The scaffolding got jammed on his steel toecap. You
should have seen the dint in the toe of his boot. If it hadn't been for
Jimmy, the whole flipping wall would have tumbled down on top of me
and I'd have been crushed to death."
"Goodness," Gibson said.
"Yes, indeed, both of us could have ended up six feet under that
day," Dan said quietly. "I haven't been able to work a day since. Most
of my mates have deserted me, but Jimmy was as good as gold--a true
friend. He'd often drop in for a chat, and we'd chew the cud and watch
the world go by."
"And how long before that had you been mates?" Gibson asked.
"Ah, flip, Miss, we were at school together. We're the same age, you
know, both born the same year, just two months apart. I never thought
we'd end up in the same neck of the world together. Jimmy was a bit
of a dreamer, and I always thought he'd bum his way around the world
and stop off in a hippie commune somewhere like San Francisco, but
no, he settled down pretty quickly."
"Did he have any regrets?" Gibson asked.
"Show me a man who has no regrets and I'll show you a liar," Dan
the Man replied. "Hey, but he hasn't got any regrets now, though, has
he?"
"So, what were these regrets of his?" Garvey asked.
"Oh, you know . . . Nora. Now there's a good place to start. She
went out and caught him, and after she bagged him and married him,
it was as if she gave up on life. But there were a couple of wains by then,
and so Jimmy was never going to do the dirty on them, or her for that
matter. I'll tell you something you won't believe, but Nora was quite a
looker in those days. I mean, a real head-turner. We had a couple of
dates way back then. Her sister fixed us up, and I'd go around to her
house to see her or take her out, and she was never in. She was always
already out somewhere. This happened once too often, so I found pastures
new. It transpired that Nora had been two-timing me with a boy
whose dad had something important to do with the Rosapenna Hotel.
Apparently I was first reserve, in case she didn't get it together with your
man. You've heard it before: rich boy turns the head of poor girl by
showing her what life on the other side of the tracks is like. Poor girl
likes what she sees, and so she rides the boy so that they'll drive off in
his Austin Princess into the romantic sunset. Girl falls pregnant. Girl
with child isn't exactly a non-stop bundle of fun, so rich boy goes off
in search of new blood for more fun, or else a rich girl to settle down
with. In the meantime, Nora disappears to 'stay with relatives in
England' and returns a couple of weeks later, looking a bit drained and run-down. She made an effort for at least her first couple of months
back home, and in those few months she ensnared poor Jimmy. On
reflection, I suppose Nora never got over the abortion. It left its mark
on her."
"Did James Moore ever complain to you about his wife?" Gibson
asked.
"Not his style. He was from the 'I've made my bed, I'll lie in it'
school."
"Did he ever cheat on her?" Garvey asked.
"Again, that was never his style."
"What about Nora?" Gibson asked.
"Sorry?" Dan the Man spluttered.
"Did Nora ever cheat on James Moore?" Gibson repeated slowly.
Dan blew a storm through his lips, and his cheeks rippled in sympathy.
"How
would I know?" he eventually said dismissively.
"OK," Garvey said, wanting to return McGuinness to a more communicative
mood. "Are you sure James never had an affair."
"I know he'd fallen in love with the vicar's wife in Ramelton and
that he was very serious about that. It would be wrong to say it was an
affair, though. Doesn't affair imply something less substantial than
love?"
"I suppose it all depends if you're the husband or the lover," Gibson
said.
"We believe James's sole source of income was from his work as a
carpenter. Is that the case as far as you know?" Garvey asked.
"Yep," Dan the Man grunted. "But he was a real master carpenter,
so he did OK out of it."
"So he never had to borrow money then?" Garvey continued.
"Not as far as I'm aware."
"Do you know of any people he may have had words with?"
Garvey asked.
"For instance?"
"Oh, you know, someone he'd fallen out with through his work?"
Packie said.
"No, no, there were never ever any gombeens hanging around
Jimmy."
"Did he ever speak about anyone threatening him? You know, his
house and workshop seem to be on a prime piece of land. Was there
ever a developer chasing around after him? Or maybe he saw something
on one of his jobs he wasn't meant to?" Garvey asked, searching his
mind for possible motives.
"I do remember he told me about a job he was working on; this
would have been several months ago. It was a job he had to fit in over
the weekend between his other jobs; it involved clearing out a pub. The
owner wanted the ornate bar dismantled and removed before the refurbishment
commenced. Jimmy took the full two days of the weekend
to dismantle the bar. There were a few people hanging around he said
he was uncomfortable with. So he got out of there and returned to the
bar the Monday morning to tidy up and collect his tools. The place was
gone. There was a black smouldering mess on the ground where the
pub once stood."
"Where was this?" Garvey asked.
"Over in Creestown. The pub was the called the Fast Trout. Jimmy thought it must have been a torch job because the electricity was
already turned off. A few days later, the gaffer on the job called round
to Jimmy's house and dropped off all his tools. He said the tools had
been discovered in the ruins. But sure, the majority of Jimmy's chisels
and hammers and what-have-you had wooden handles, and they were
all in a wooden toolbox he'd made for himself, all totally unburnt. So
figure that one out."
"And who owned the pub?" Garvey asked.
"I don't remember who the owner of the shebeen was."
"So it was an illegal establishment?"
"No, maybe, possibly. I really don't remember much about it. I
think in the early days it had a reputation for being outside the law, but
that all changed lately, I believe.
Garvey wondered if McGuinness genuinely couldn't remember, or
if he was trying to be discreet. Donegal was rife with rumours of shebeens
using their alleged paramilitary connections to ignore the county's
building regulations. When in doubt, knocking or torching seemed
to be the best way forward. Garvey knew Starrett would definitely be
interested in this piece of information. He had a healthy distaste for
anyone who thought they were beyond the law and who openly flaunted
their outlaw approach, while at the same time retaining a full team
of expensive solicitors who knew exactly how to interpret the laws to
their clients' full benefit.
"Did James Moore have any suspicions as to who caused the fire?"
Garvey asked, picking his words as carefully as he could.
"Do I really look that stupid?" Dan the Man replied, putting on a
bit of a show for Nuala Gibson.
"OK, we can understand your reluctance," she responded. "But,
Daniel, are there any other people like that you can remember who
might have held a grudge against Mi Moore?"
"Apart from the husband of the wife he was having a relationship
with?"
"Yes," Garvey replied hopefully.
"Nope, Packie," Dan said. "I mean, Jimmy was so inoffensive that
at times it was really offensive that he was so inoffensive, if you get my
drift."
Daniel McGuinness started to shift around uncomfortably in his
chair.
"Are you OK?" Gibson asked immediately. "Can we get your wife
or someone to help?"
"Oh, you're about four-and-a-half years too late on that account.
She ran off with a member of a Cork trad band. No, it's just that I
always get twitchy around grub time ... so, ahm . . . if you've nothing
else," he said, before shouting, "Food!" in the general direction of the
kitchen.
"I suppose that'll do us for now," Garvey replied, checking his
watch. It was 13.06.
"Right, I'm going nowhere," McGuinness said. Then he added as
an apparent afterthought, "Tell me, Packie, how do you think you'll do
against Armagh? Would it be worth my while to get one of the wains
to run up to the bookies and put a few euros on you boys?"
"I think you'd be safe on an each-way bet, Dan," Packie said as he
and Nuala Gibson left the dark house. They could hear the beginnings
of another eruption of laughter as they let themselves out through the
front door.


Chapter Twenty-Three

That's CERTAINLY AN ugly can of worms," Starrett said when
Garda Gibson relayed the information about the apparent
torching of the possible shebeen in Creestown.
"Yeah, McGuinness was very reluctant to give us any additional
information.
"Oh, that's not a problem," Starrett mused. "It'll be easy enough to
find out the owner's name. I believe I know exactly who we're talking
about here, and if it is him, he's been getting away with this auld carryon
for ten yeais or so. He thinks he's pretty untouchable, and in fact
we've never been able to make any of our charges against him stick.
Witnesses tend to disappear. Even the Revenue leaves him alone. Over
the past seven years, he's been cleaning up his act. I've heard he's moved
into legitimate businesses and surrounded himself with pretty powerful
friends."
"How can people like that have friends?" Nuala Gibson asked.
"Money makes friends very easily," Starrett replied. "Tell you what,
Nuala, let's go through this by the book. Do me a favour and see who
the registered owner of the Fast Trout up in Creestown was at the time
of the fire."
Starrett always did everything 100 per cent by the book, and he
insisted his team do the same. Perhaps there were times when 95 per
cent by the book might do, but how far was it from there to work
your way down to 70 per cent and 50 per cent and even not by the
book at all? While he was having this thought, the earnest Gibson, as
if reading his mind, said, "Packie tells me that you always do everything
100 per cent by the book; that's why I'm so happy to be working
with you guys."
Starrett smiled but felt slightly embarrassed.
"Oh shit," she said. "That came out all wrong. I mean, it's not that
I'm unhappy either, but I don't want to sound like a big girl's blouse."
"Right, Nuala, I don't think we need to go there. Why don't
you . . ."
"... find out the owner of the Fast Trout?" she interrupted.
"Correct!"
"Consider it done," she said, disappearing up the stairs to Tower
House's sole computer.


Starrett took the opportunity to complete another chore.
There had been a series of petty break-ins in the area over the previous
few months. No damage had been done, but the gardai were
intrigued by the offender's resourceful and discreet methods of entry.
However, on the previous evening, the subject in question had been
caught on the premises by the owner, who'd easily overpowered the 16year-old
Rory De Vieto Junior.
Part of the major's successful tactic with such offenders was to give
them a taste of what life might be like on the other side of bars. A night
in the cells with the local drunks and what have-yous does tend to have
a sobering effect on a young man.
But Rory was a different type. It wasn't that he was cocky, but he
felt that because of his father--a very successful policeman in Boston-- he was untouchable. He more or less admitted to all of the crimes,
which had started around the time he arrived back in Ramelton for his
summer vacation.
"Your father is going to be very disappointed, you know," Starrett
said, once he'd joined the boy in the interview room.
"Whatever," Rory replied, as if he were an extra on The Simpsons.
"You know, normally, because of your father, I'd let you off with a
warning," Starrett said, "but you don't seem too remorseful..."
Rory shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
". . . so, I think what I'll do is charge you with all of these thefts."

"But I'm only sixteen," he protested.
"Yes, but you are sixteen," Starrett said.
"But I didn't take anything last night."
"Only because you didn't get a chance."
"I didn't admit I was responsible for the other B&Es," Rory
pleaded.
"Tell you what, boyo, why don't you tell that to the magistrate in
Letterkenny on Monday morning? I'm afraid I don't have time to deal
with this. You're going to be one of those statistics that slipped through
the cracks in our all-too-fallible system."
"But my dad ..." Rory was close to tears now.
Starrett rose from his chair, closed the file, walked over to Rory and
clipped him on the ear. When Rory made to protest, Starrett said, "Just
giving you a little sample of what a little rich American boy in prison
with a bunch of Irish criminals is going to be in for."
"Oh, look, can you call my father? You can do it collect."
"Sorry, I'm not interested," Starrett said, leaving Rory alone in the
interview room.
He told the desk sergeant to leave Rory De Vieto Junior in there
for forty minutes and then to release him with an instruction to report
to Tower House every morning at 08.30 for the remainder of his stay
in Donegal.
Starrett hoped that believing he'd end up in jail would work as
effectively for Rory as it had for his father.


"The name of the owner of the Fast Trout Bar and Restaurant at the
time of the fire in Creestown was Owen Bonner," Nuala reported five
minutes later.
"I figured it might be," Starrett said, looking distracted.
Nuala Gibson hung around the door for a few seconds, awaiting
instruction.
"Look, we'll have to leave this until later. Why don't you come
down with me to Betsy Bell's again?"
The first minister's wife was in slightly better spirits than she'd been
when Starrett had left her an hour and a half previously.
"I'm sorry about . . . before, and you having to return," she said
quietly, and then added, "Thank you for being so considerate. Please
ask me whatever you like. I'm keen to do all I can do to help catch his
killers."
"OK, look, is there any possibility your husband knew you and Mr
Moore were having a relationship?"
"Well, it wasn't that we were always covering up our tracks, but we
were careful. At the beginning, neither of us knew what it was we were
getting involved in, and then, as time passed, we realised we owed it to
ourselves to protect the specialness of our relationship by not hurting
others, so, yes, we were careful."
"Who knew about the relationship?" Starrett asked, Gibson taking
notes.
"Well, Betsy here, and Eileen McLaughlin and my sister, and then
Jimmy's mates Colm Donovan and Big Dan McGuinness. I don't
believe anyone else knew," Amanda said. "You didn't tell anyone, Betsy,
did you?"
"Not that I can think of," Betsy replied, diplomatically but maybe
not entirely truthfully. That was a question for a later time and a smaller
audience, Starrett decided.
"How many times did you and Mr Moore . . . ? Look, I apologise
here if you think I'm being too coarse, but I don't know how to ask this
other than: how many times did you and Mr Moore get together in the
Manse?"
"Nine times," Amanda replied immediately, without having to give
it a millisecond's thought. Starrett realised that, if required, she could
probably recall every detail of each encounter.
"Did he ever stay overnight?"
"Not quite," Amanda replied. "Let me explain. I did want him to.
To me there is nothing quite so fulfilling as making sweet love to someone
you love and then waking up in his arms the following morning.
We settled for a 5 a.m. alarm call on the one occasion. He didn't leave
until about an hour later." She paused here for a second's consideration.
"But it was still dark when he left."
"Had he parked his van in the driveway?"
"No. He'd parked outside Conway's pub, and he even went in
and had a drink so that no one would be suspicious. Then he came
up Meeting House Lane, Mortimer's Lane and in the Manse's back
way. It was all very cloak-and-dagger. We talked about that afterwards--you
know, the deceit. I mean, you start off with great intentions,
but then you end up doing things like that to cover your tracks.
That was the first time we discussed that we didn't want to have that
type of a relationship, that we wanted to be in a position where we
could put things out in the open. Betsy was brilliant to both of us at
that point," Amanda said, looking to Betsy for some kind of corroboration.
"Well,
it's a very difficult situation, isn't it?" Betsy Bell joined in,
seemingly happy to take the spotlight away from her friend, if only for
a few moments. "The husband is cheating on the wife. On top of
which, there were Jimmy's kids to consider. Then Mandy is cheating on
her husband, who also happens to be a first minister and a pillar of the
community. I told Mandy that if she was as serious about this as she
was leading me to believe she was and if she wanted herself and Jimmy
to have a future of some kind, then they were going to have to be very
careful over what steps they took. There was no point in them being in
love but for Jimmy to be miserable for the rest of his life because his
kids had disowned him. And Ivan, for all his pomposity, is still human,
and he did take in and protect our Mandy at a time when she needed
it most. I've always said to her that she didn't blossom as a woman until
he took her under his wing as it were."
"Yes, but I never felt like a real woman until Jimmy and I got
together," Amanda said.
"Yes, yes, I know, Mandy dear. I wasn't criticising you. I was only
explaining to the inspector that I cautioned you both to be careful.
Look, in this life, even at the best of times, it's nearly impossible to meet
and fall in love with your perfect partner and make it work out. Mandy
and Jimmy, through no fault of their own, were beginning from a far
from ideal situation. So, my point was, yes, by all means follow your
heart, but don't let your heart rule your head to the point that all you're
really going to do is ruin your life and at least five other people's lives
as well."
"And of course it made perfect sense," Amanda agreed. "We discussed
moving away together. But Jimmy loved Donegal so much, and
he didn't want to become a stranger to his children. And, I'll be perfectly
frank with you: I'd put in my time with Mr Ivan Morrison. I'd
lived up to my part of my deal with him, and I didn't want to be
thrown out without a penny. So we'd been discussing the various ways
of making this work. The best plan we could come up with was for us
to split up with our respective spouses, and then, after a discreet time,
we thought just over a year would be about right, we'd find a way-- probably with Betsy orchestrating it--to meet and conduct a public
courtship. This way, we figured, Jimmy's children and even Nora could
become used to us getting together as a couple, rather than suffering
some kind of public humiliation. We accepted that divorce was out of
the question. Nora would side with her church on that one. But it
didn't matter to us. Neither of us was devout anything. I married a
member of the Second Federation Church, for heaven's sake. All that
mattered between Jimmy and me was that we would be together.
That'll never happen now, Betsy."
Starrett was worried he was about to lose Amanda in another emotional
breakdown. Amanda rose to her feet, crossed her arms in front
of her and walked up and down in the conservatory, backward and forward,
backward and forward, on the same journey as before. At times
she passed so close to Starrett that he could smell her expensive,
heather-infused perfume.
Eventually she said, "I'm fine, Inspector. What's your next
question?"
"Good. Can we go back to your husband for a few moments?"
Starrett said. "When did he become a minister in the Second
Federation Church?"
"I don't know . .." Amanda started to say, as Betsy Bell interrupted.
"Oh, I can answer that one for you, Inspector. My husband and I
have known him for ages. Ivan came back here from Texas in the early
1990s. He was originally from Plumbridge, and he'd gone over to
America to seek his fame and fortune with a gospel band in the 1970s.
Believe it or not, he plays the piano."
"He plays the piano in the house sometimes," Amanda added. "He
has one in his study, and he often records himself playing one of his
pieces of music."
"Oh, yes," Betsy chuckled politely. "That's his party piece when
anyone goes around to the Manse for dinner. Anyway, he was quite
friendly with my husband. Ivan admitted to Billy that when he met up

with the Second Federation Church in Texas he couldn't believe it. He
said it was the perfect religion for him."
"You see, my husband loved the pomp and ceremony of a real
church. He just wasn't fussed about the spiritual responsibility,"
Amanda said, without making it sound like a criticism of the first minister.
"When he discovered that the creator of the Second Federation
Church, William O'Donnell, was a Donegal man, he persuaded the
elders that they should open a church in O'Donnell's homeland to celebrate
the fact. Apparently they'd been thinking of such a move for
years, and Ivan just happened along at the right moment."
"Aye, that's Ivan for you," Betsy offered. Looking at her friend, she
added. "He has a great gift for just happening along at the right
moment."
"How does the Second Federation Church receive its funding? Is
it from gifts and collections from its congregations?" Starrett asked.
"I haven't a clue," Amanda replied.
But Betsy broke in: "I believe that is so."
"So, who would the first minister report to?" Starrett asked.
"Well, I believe that would be the elders back in Texas," Betsy
replied, but she looked at Amanda for corroboration.
"I suppose so," she replied. "But I think they just let him get on
with it."
"And why wouldn't they?" Betsy said. "Ivan has done very well for
them. He provided a much-needed alternative for those disgruntled
with the effects of 'The Troubles'. For the first time, you had a group
of people who, when asked if they were Protestant or Catholic, could
stand up and safely say, Actually I'm neither. I'm a member of the
Second Federation Church.'"
"OK," Starrett said. "Let's consider Mrs Moore, for a while. Is there any chance she could have known about you and James?"
"None at all," Amanda replied without a moment's hesitation.
"Why are you so convinced of that?" Starrett asked.
"Because Jimmy told me that, as far as his wife was concerned,
nothing had changed. He often worked out in his workshop until the
early hours of the morning. Jimmy reckoned that Nora hadn't been out
there since he first built it. He told me it wasn't a regular occurrence,
but sometimes he'd become so engrossed in his work that he would just

be working away and then suddenly it'd be daybreak. He just loved his
work, Inspector. He loved the combination of working with wood, creating
something special and useful, while at the same time he could let
his mind wander. He was always saying that he never considered it
work. He would have done it for nothing if he'd had to."
"I need to ask you if you know whether Jimmy was still sleeping
with Nora."
"Yes, he slept with her, but that was all they did: sleep," Amanda
replied. "Jimmy said they never had had a very active sex life. In the
early days of their marriage, Nora made it clear that she thought it
was a chore and one she didn't particularly enjoy. Jimmy believed that
Nora thought sex was a necessary evil designed only to create children,
and that once they'd had their three, she didn't need to endure
it any longer. He said he never really missed it because it wasn't something
he was preoccupied with. He also said that he didn't think such
an attitude was unusual; otherwise why would the pubs be so full
most of the time."
Starrett was about to ask another question when Amanda added:
"I think it's very important that you understand that Nora and Jimmy
didn't have a bad marriage as far as they were concerned. They had their
problems and they'd learned to work around them. But it wasn't as if
they were fighting all the time either."
"OK," Starrett started slowly. "Are you aware of anyone else
involved in James' life who might have had a reason . . . ?"
"What, you mean another woman?" Amanda asked, picking the
wrong thread entirely. She stopped her dandering around the conservatory
right in front of Starrett and glared down at him defiantly.
"No, I wasn't thinking specifically about another woman," Starrett
said slowly, not wanting her to think that it could be ruled out
altogether.
"Inspector Starrett, if you think for one moment that there was a
possibility James was having a relationship with another woman, then
I haven't been very successful in describing our relationship to you. If
you are the type of person, Inspector, who thinks that just because
Jimmy cheated with me he could cheat with others, I'm very disappointed
in you."
"I'm sure Starrett doesn't think that," Betsy said firmly. "However,
Amanda, if he didn't at least consider every possibility, he'd be a pretty
poor detective, now, wouldn't he?"
"Mmmm," Amanda said, sounding unconvinced and retaining the
look of hurt in her eyes. Slowly at first, she resumed her trek around
the conservatory.
"OK," Starrett said with a click of his teeth, "we're assuming that
neither Mr Morrison nor Mrs Moore, nor indeed any other women,
were involved in James Moore's killing. So, taking that as agreed, is
there anyone else you can think of who may have had it in for Jimmy?"
"No," Amanda said. "I'm really very sorry I can't be of more help.
Since Jimmy and I didn't really have what you would call a social relationship,
I didn't come across his outside acquaintances."
"And in your time together, he didn't confess any worries, any
concerns?"
"No, Inspector, he was a very contented, self-contained man," she
replied.
"So there's nothing at all you can think of?"
"Well, the only subject I can imagine Jimmy getting into an argument
over would be his children. Nothing else in his life would have
bothered him as much."
"Had anything been happening in the children's lives?"
"There didn't seem to be. He was very proud of them. He was
extremely proud of the way Chris was turning out. He wondered how
he and Nora could have produced such a wonderful young man. Oh
my goodness, Inspector, you should have seen him when he spoke
about Chris. I just couldn't wait to meet him and be part of his life-- and Claudia and Brian as well, of course."
"OK, Mrs Morrison, thanks for being so patient with me," Starrett
said, taking to his feet. "Please give me a shout if you think of anything
else, anything else at all. Betsy, if you don't mind, I'd like Mrs Morrison
to remain here."
"Not a bother, Starrett. She's not going anywhere."
"I think I'll send out an unmarked car to keep an eye on the place."
"What? Do you think Mandy could be in some kind of danger?"
"The honest answer is that I just don't know, but I don't intend to
take any chances."

Chapter Twenty-Four
O

« ^"^ K, TELL ME this, Nuala, and tell me no more," Starrett said
on their return journey to Ramelton.
Yes?"
"You know how sometimes a girl or a woman will walk around
with her arms folded in front of her?"
"Yes?"
"Well, it's just that men don't do that," Starrett said, scratching his
chin. "Can you tell me, Nuala, what that's all about?"
"I've always thought it was a form of protection."
"But if you think about it," Starrett said, proving that he had
thought about it quite a bit in fact, "it's not really an effective form of
protection. By virtue of the fact that the hands are somewhat restrained,
you'd have to say that anyone with their arms folded in front of them is more in need of protection than someone with their arms hanging
free."
"I can understand that," Nuala said in agreement. "So what do you think the folded arms signify?"
"Well, the only thing I've been able to come up with is that it's
someone who is sexually vulnerable sending a signal to all around her
saying, 'Keep away!'"
"You mean like Mrs Morrison?"
"Exactly like Mrs Morrison, Nuala, exactly like Mrs Morrison."



Chapter Twenty-Five



AS STARRETT DROVE over to Letterkenny, he thought of Owen
Bonner, current owner of the Fast Trout Bar and Restaurant, and the infamous Bonner family.
Although Bonner was the youngest son of Vincent and Eliza
Bonner, he had always seemed destined to take over the family business.
Vincey consistently went out of his way, sometimes at the cost of incurring
the wrath of his other two sons, Alexander (a.k.a. Milky) and
Padraig, to keep his son out of trouble and in the educational system.
Vincey, himself an only son who, as a fifteen-year-old, had seen his
parents turfed off their farm in 1949, had resolved that by hook or by
crook, the same would never happen to him. Part of him loved his parents,
but another part despised them for being so pathetic and unable
to support themselves and consequently him. He hated being poor. It
wasn't the lack of clothes or food; what he couldn't bear was the sheer
public humiliation of it all. In 1950, Vincey joined the mass exodus to
England, landing in Luton in the springtime where he immediately
found a job digging drains.
Keeping himself to himself, he shunned the drink. As he saw his
workmates drink away their entire wages on a Friday night, he also
accepted that the demon alcohol had surely been responsible for his
family's problems. He saved every penny he could, staying in work-site
huts, and as he always had his wits about him, no one in the hut messed
with him. Whenever anyone picked a fight, he never backed down, nor
was he ever beaten. He soon was being called on to settle disputes and
act as a kind of "security". Vincey didn't like to fight--he felt it was
barbaric--and, about two years later and a few steps further up the
pecking order, he came up with a scam that ensured he would rarely
need to resort to his fists again.
During the week, Vincent Bonner would sell tickets for 1 pound to raffle
off his entire weekly wage of 77 pounds penceFor the first few weeks, he lost
money, as he knew he would. But he had good reserves to draw on, and
as the news of his enterprise spread, pretty soon he was selling 180 tickets
every week. Men from other sites started to subscribe too, and
before long he was regularly clearing 300 pounds a week. He would always
pay the winner with great flair and in full view of everybody on site.
His next enterprise was supplying teams of men for various jobs
around the sites. Not only would the young Vincent Bonner secure
work for you; he would also protect you and guarantee your wages,
which were always paid on the dot and in cash. He loved cash, folding
money--nothing else, including taxes, existed in his world. By then he
was as busy as he could be, sometimes working up to twenty hours a
day just to keep on top of things. He handpicked four other navvies to
work for him full time. Around this time, he first crept across the line
of legality. He avoided major crimes because he didn't want to draw
attention to himself, but if a building contractor was silly enough to
leave money or equipment lying around, well... He figured the world
owed him, and he was happy to collect.
Vincent Bonner returned to Creestown in 1960 a rich man. He
bought a small pub, the Fast Trout. He met and married Eliza (Lizzie),
who had produced three sons for him by the mid-1960s. For the next
fifteen years, his empire continued to grow. He was involved in the
cross-border smuggling of cigarettes, alcohol and cattle. There was talk
of robberies, and swindling people out of property and land. As the
sons grew older and there was more at stake, he never bothered to call
on the gardai to protect his interests. No, Vincey, Milky and Padraig
and a few trusted soldiers took care of that side of the business, whilst
Owen studied his way through university. The Bonners used the dust
being blown up by the Northern Ireland "Troubles" as a very effective
smokescreen for their core businesses, some of which were being carried
out in the name of "the Cause", maybe even with some of it ending
up in paramilitary hands.


Fast forward to the early 1990s: Vincey retires and Owen takes over
the family business and starts to develop the legitimate front. As Owen
perfects the art of window dressing and financing grateful politicians'
campaigns, Milky and Padraig continue with the other, and equally
lucrative, side of the business, making their mark--if not their name-- by providing stolen cars and motorcycles to a Belgian set-up. By the
time Starrett had come face-to-face with Owen Bonner, his father and
Lizzie had given up the grey skies of Donegal for the blue skies of Spain,
and Milky and Padraig had publicly--to all intents and purposes-- retired after one too many run-ins with the gardai.
In press coverage, Owen had successfully distanced himself from
his two older brothers, but Starrett knew for certain of a couple of
instances when the trio had reunited on the wrong side of the law. The
bigger the family business grew, the more there was to protect. The
more there was to protect, the more they drew the jealous attentions of
similarly greedy-minded people. Some of whom, when they became a
nuisance, would end up in hospital following serious accidents.
Accidents like the brakes on their car malfunctioning. Other less fortunate
people simply disappeared and stayed disappeared. The gardai
investigated, but Owen had learned how to make the law work for him
and had managed to perfect this expensive art.
Starrett hoped that patience would prove to be the virtue everyone,
including Major Newton Cunningham, claimed it to be.

Chapter Twenty-Six



STARRETT HAD NEVER met Owen Bonner before, and he was in for
a few surprises when finally confronted with him. Bonner's large,
rambling house was in the area known as the Mountain Top,
which overlooked Letterkenny, the hub of his empire.
Bonner was the one member of a lawless family who had successfully
managed to find a way, if not above the law, then definitely around
it. On the rare occasions the gardai managed to pin anything on Mr
Owen James Bonner, his lawyers would always manage to find some
legal loophole to ensure that their client got off scot-free.
Bonner must have had many visitors, because the ground-floor
back room, closest to the two-storey garage wing, was decorated and
furnished like an upmarket waiting room of a private dentist's or
doctor's surgery. There were two matching suites of furniture, black in
colour and expensive in feel; two leather bucket chairs; a generous sized
antique oak table, which looked as though its legs had been halved to
give it a coffee table stature; a high-backed writing desk, complete with
white notepaper embossed with the Bonner logo; and a leather cup of
black, classy pens, personalised in gold lettering with the legend
Nicked from Owen Bonner". Like numerous previous visitors, Starrett
couldn't resist taking one for himself. The coffee table was laden with
the most recent copies of Country Life, Antique Cars, Autosport, The
Letterkenny Christmas Annual 2007 and, perhaps to keep the spouses
happy, recent editions of OK and Hello.
A uniformed maid had led Starrett from the front door to the
waiting room. She had taken his order for "a coffee and a bickey", but
he was delighted when she returned with a cappuccino and a
Bakersville muffin. Starrett worked on the American principle that
no matter how unhealthy cakes, buns and biscuits were, they were
totally acceptable if they contained at least one healthy ingredient,
such as brown sugar, ginger or fruit concentrate. Fruit concentrate
was Starrett's favourite, because it could cover a multitude of culinary
sins. The Bakersville muffin on his plate contained blueberries.
Blessed are the blueberries, Starrett thought, for they shall inherit the
calories. Pretty soon, that particular Bakersville muffin was a thing of
the past, remembered only by a scattering of telltale crumbs, and
Starrett concentrated on the objects dotted around the reception
room's walls.
Mr Bonner had several paintings adorning his pale blue walls.
There was a Derek Hill, enhanced by a picture light, and a Charles
McAuley with the paint applied so generously you could almost feel
the depth of the scene, not to mention the cost of the piece.
Starrett was trying to make sense of the Derek Hill when a smartly
dressed woman entered the waiting room and said, "Hi, I'm Diandra,
Mr Bonner's PA. We're sorry for keeping you waiting, but if you'd like to
follow me, I'll show you through."
"No problem at all," Starrett replied, noting that it had been "we"
who'd been keeping him waiting and not just Owen himself.
Diandra looked to be in her late-twenties, sounded as if she were
from the west coast of America, and was dressed like she'd just been
released from finishing school, in a sober, dark-blue, pin-striped suit
and a crisp white shirt, fastened with a quietly striped tie.
She swaggered her way out of the room with Starrett following
dutifully. He was couldn't help wondering--and not for the first
time--how women manage to make a chore as simple as walking across
an empty room such a sensual, captivating music-less dance.
"We've managed to rejig some meetings in order to find a window
for you," she said, leading him out or the room. "But I would be very
grateful if you could keep the interview as brief as possible."
Starrett wondered just how grateful she'd be as he followed her
through a maze of corridors, rooms and staircases until she eventually
let him into a double-aspect room at the front of the house.
This was definitely the room with the view. Starrett realised that
the reason the house looked so ungainly from the outside was that it
had been built to enjoy the view rather than to be the view itself.
The sophisticated businessman who greeted Starrett was in no way
the chancer and thug he'd visualised.
A smartly dressed Bonner was seated, engrossed in a small pile of
paperwork in the centre of his tidy, mahogany desk. When Starrett
and Diandra walked in, he said, "I'll be right with you," then continued
to read and sign papers without giving them a second glance.
Diandra stood patiently by Bonner's side and, at the conclusion of his
paperwork, passed him the file she held under her arm. He opened it
and spent a couple of minutes reading the contents before flipping it
shut and dumping it on top of a pile of similar files on the corner of
his desk.
He stood up, took the dark-blue linen blazer that had been hanging
on the back of his swivel captain's chair and slipped it on in an agile,
both-arms-simultaneously-overhead manoeuvre. The jacket, joining a
cyan-coloured shirt, red and blue school tie, moleskin trousers and
new-looking black leather slip-on shoes completed Bonner's Ralph
Lauren, business-yet-casual look.
Bonner was around six foot tall and, Starrett guessed, weighed
about 168 pounds. His hair was dark brown and well-groomed, with a parting so sharp you could have struck a match on it. There was not an
ounce of surplus fat on the man, and Starrett immediately regretted the
muffin he'd just eaten. Bonner's skin was clear, but a hint of darkness
around his eyes suggested that he didn't sleep well.
"Inspector Starrett," Bonner said, holding out his hand and breaking
into an open smile. "I don't believe we've ever met, but I've heard
a lot about you over the years." His voice sounded like the end-product
of a good education.
"Aye, and I about you, sir," Starrett replied, reluctantly taking the
extended hand.
Starrett sensed the strength and power of the man, cloaked though
it was in a gesture of friendship.
"I'll tell you what, Inspector, I've a wee treat for you," Bonner said,
dropping Starrett's hand. "Something you'll enjoy seeing. Please follow
me."
They left the office via a different door from the one they'd come
in through. As they passed them, Starrett mentally logged all the different
framed site-plans of building projects Bonner had been involved
in or was currently developing. He found himself thinking, So that was
one of yours too. I hadn't realised.
They took a spiral wooden staircase down to the ground floor and
out into the sunlit courtyard.
Bonner took a set of keys from his pocket and opened the door to
a large, six-berth, air-conditioned garage. As the sunlight broke in and
hit the shiny surfaces of the vehicles inside, he beamed from ear to ear.
"I heard you were a man who loved these old beauties, too. Aren't
they just incredible?"
So, that was my file he was studying, Starrett thought, as he drank
in the visions of perfection before him.
Five incredible cars were neatly lined up in front of him. One was
a 1957 Mercedes 300 SL "Gull Wing", one of the sexiest sports saloon
cars ever manufactured and probably the first car capable of doing 150
miles an hour. There was also a 1961 E-Type 3.8 fixed-head coupe, the
first and definitely the best E-Type; a 1953 Frazer-Nash, a replica of the
famous Le Mans GT race car; a 1964 Ferrari 250 GT Lusso; and a
1965 Aston Martin DB5, equally famous both for being the James
Bond car and also for being very difficult to drive.
"This is a phenomenal collection of cars, sir."
"Aye, but there's at least one more I'd like to get my hands on,"
Bonner said, clearly very chuffed that Starrett was impressed with his
vehicles.
"Oh, and which one would that be?"
"A Ferrari 250 GTO racing sports car."
"Aye, now that would surely set you back a tidy sum," Starrett said,
clicking his teeth. "If you ever managed to find one, that is. There were
only fifty-six ever manufactured."
"Yep . . . and about half of them were destroyed or written off during
races. Assuming I could ever get my hands on one, it would probably
cost me about five or six times the total worth of my entire set
here."
Bonner looked wistfully over his collection. "Apparently Nick
Mason has one, but then they say he's got one of everything."
"I doubt he'll have a Ferrari P4," Starrett offered. "Only three were
ever made: one was destroyed in a fire, another was written off in a race,
and the last time one came under the hammer, it fetched twelve million
sterling."
"So what would your dream car be?" Bonner asked, appearing
reluctant to let the boys-and-their-toys moment pass.
"Oh, that's an easy one: the most beautiful car every made is the
Ford GT 40."
"Mmmm, a 1966 model and only forty inches high. What would
that set you back these days . . . three quarters of a million euro?"
"In that neighbourhood, and that's a neighbourhood garda inspectors
never visit," Starrett replied good-humouredly.
"Here, why don't you sit in this one?" Bonner opened the door of
the Mercedes for Starrett and indicated the white leather seat. "They're
all in perfect working condition. I've got a burly bearded genius
mechanic, Tony Smith, who comes in once a month to service them all.
As you can probably see from the tyres and speedometers, these beauts
haven't travelled much more than ten miles between them. Oops,
maybe that should have been kilometres, in respect of our friends from
the Continent who put the breath back in the hibernating Celtic
Tiger."
Bonner opened the passenger door of the adjoining vehicle, the
Aston Martin, and climbed in. The two men were barely six feet apart.
"I thought you might prefer to have our chat down here. I don't
think I'll ever be totally comfortable stuck in an office, but that's what
the money men want to see, isn't it? Now, Inspector, what can I do for
you?"
"Look," said Starrett, slightly awed by the comfort and extremely
expensive smell of the Mercedes, "right now I'm investigating a
murder--"
"That of Mr James Moore, I believe," Bonner interrupted, with a
tone that suggested he not only knew about the murder but wanted
Starrett to know that he knew about it.
"Yes, indeed," Starrett replied. "And I discovered that he worked a
while for you in the past."
"Oh, really?" Bonner said, looking away from Starrett and scrunching
up his eyelids as if trying to recall such an occasion.
"Yes, apparently he was working on the Fast Trout up in
Creestown."
"Of course, that was my father's pub," Bonner said, recognition
flashing across his brown eyes. "Tell me, do you have any idea what he
was supposed to be doing for me up there? It's a beautiful part of the
world, by the way."
"Aye, it is indeed," Starrett said. Apparently James Moore was dismantling
an antique bar for you. You see, Mr Moore was a master carpenter."
Starrett paused to study Bonner more intently, at the same
time trying to keep the chat casual and in the same conversational manner
they'd started with. "It would appear that he was moonlighting on
the weekend as a favour to someone on your team. Anyway, Mr Moore
completed his work late on Sunday, and later that night the Fast Trout
was burnt to the ground."
"Oh yes, I do remember something about that, now you come to
mention it. I had my site manager carry out an investigation into the
cause of that fire, but he couldn't establish what had started it. Of
course, Inspector, I realise that out there on the mean streets of
Donegal, the great unwashed are probably gossiping away, claiming
that it was an insurance job on a listed building or something similar."
"Well, it would appear that this one is nothing as complicated as
that, Owen. It seems that it was all quite straightforward."
"What, so straightforward that absolutely no one is gossiping?"
"Aye, no, not exactly," Starrett said through the hint of a smile. "No,
from what I can ascertain, by the time Mr Moore had completed his
work, he was extremely tired. Reportedly he was a very conscientious
worker, and rather than leave the place in a mess, he left his tool box as
a sign that he was going to return to finish up."
"OK, I'm still with you," Bonner said.
"But here's where, I'm sure you'll agree, it all gets a little strange.
James Moore assumed that all of his tools had been destroyed in the
overnight fire. However, a day or so later, one of your boys delivered his
tool box, totally intact, to his house."
"Oh yes, I get it; I'm with you now, Starrett," Bonner said. "Yes, I
do remember. I've heard all about this one. It was a really beautiful bar
surround this one. I've got to show it to you one day, once we've found
a new home for it. It was hand-carved from the wood of the captain's
cabin salvaged from the ship Ubeona, which ran aground near
Ramelton, sometime in the 1870s, I believe. Nine poor souls lost their
lives. When my men were removing the pieces of the dismantled bar
late on that particular Sunday night, they mistakenly took Mr Moore's
toolbox at the same time. Later, when they discovered it wasn't ours,
they returned it to its rightful owner."
"Right," Starrett replied. "That would make sense."
"Look, Inspector, here's the thing," Bonner said, sinking back into
the plush seat of the Ferrari before continuing. "I realise what people
say about me. I accept that. I know I can't control it, and I could drive
myself mad trying to. Equally, I know that in the 1950s and 1960s we,
as a family, had only ourselves to blame. We were, shall we say, not the
most upright members of the community, and, God knows, I've been
paying for it ever since. But rest assured, I spent too long at university
slaving over business studies to blow it on some stupid petty deal. Why
bother to cheat when you can prosper almost as well by being straight.
I'd be a complete eejit if I were doing even one per cent of the things
being laid at my door. Every time a match is struck, it's, 'Oh goodness,
did you hear, Bonner's at his torching again?' Every time a stone falls
from a country wall, they'll all shouting, 'Knocker Bonner's at it again,
just because he couldn't get planning permission.' Look I rely totally
on the planning office for my livelihood. Sure, if they even dreamt there
was a possibility that my organisation conducted itself in as shady a
manner as people say, they'd be down on me like a ton of Donegal
stone."
Bonner paused. He seemed to be studying Starrett's reaction before
carrying on: "Oh, come on, Inspector, what else can you expect when
you've got a pack of bloodhounds chasing around the country slapping
preservation orders on every toilet over ten years old? We do have a few
old buildings like the Fast Trout, but from my organisation's point of
view, knocking and refurbishing is not where the money is. This is the
twenty-first century. The old Celtic Tiger may have been winded, but
its generation still wants to party, and I can tell you, they want to party
in clean modern buildings with proper plumbing and all the health and
safety issues that go with them. You try dealing with these people and
telling them you want to connect a modern kitchen--one that caters
for a couple of hundred servings a day--on to an old stone building
with a prehistoric plumbing system. I prefer to build new on virgin
ground from the foundations up. Now, maybe our buildings aren't
going to win any design awards, but they're certainly functional, clean
and safe. But, for some strange reason, I get a bad press from certain
elements in the media and from that Heritage mob, which is probably
thanks to the spin fuelled by my competitors. And I suppose it serves
to keep the heat off their own backs."
During this entire monologue, Bonner kept an even tone. It was
obviously material he'd used before. Starrett thought the developer had
climbed off his soapbox, but not so.
"I'm telling you that I'm a businessman, and I'm out to make
money. The way I look at it, there is genuine need for all of the projects
I'm involved in. If there is demand for a function room of some kind in
the middle of the country and I'm the first one to spot that opening, I'll
be in there like Flynn. But I'm not interested in uphill struggles, at least
not all the time. I'm not going to take on the planners, the taxman, the
gardai or one of these environmental groups if I can help it. I just don't
need to. I'm very happy with my business, and besides which, life's too
short and I've too much to accomplish."
"Right, so . . ." Starrett said, running his hands around the static
steering wheel. "The man who hired James Moore for you--could I
please speak to him?"
"Why, of course, you can," Bonner replied, sounding genuinely surprised.
"But why on earth would you want to? I've told you exactly what
happened."
"Yes, but if your gaffer hired Mr Moore, it means he knew him, so
he might be able to give us more background information. I'll admit
we know little or nothing about this man Moore, and I need to build
a more detailed picture of him for the investigation."
"From what I hear, it's a pretty open-and-shut case, Inspector,"
Bonner said dismissively.
"What is it you've heard then?"
"Wasn't your man James Moore riding the vicar's wife down there
in that sleepy little town of Ramelton?"
"But haven't you just spent ages explaining to me how unreliable
all these local rumours can be?"
"Well, Inspector Starrett, I'll tell you this and I'll tell you no more:
there's nothing more dangerous to a man's health than riding another
man's wife."
Bonner had not raised his voice for a single moment he'd been talking,
but a strange look had appeared in his eyes during his last statement,
and the lines in his forehead grew progressively more defined.
Finally Bonner, glancing at his watch, jumped out of the car, closed the
door very reverentially, and announced, "Right, Inspector, that's it. I'm
afraid the window the lovely Diandra opened for you has just closed. I
need to be at another meeting or I'll be in big trouble with her, and
believe you me, that's another kind of trouble to be avoided at all costs."
Starrett got out of the motionless Mercedes and let Bonner close
the door.
The developer held out his hand, saying, "It was good to meet you,
Inspector."
"Yep, same here," Starrett replied, this time holding on to Bonner's
hand a little longer while using their closeness to stare into his eyes.
"Look, ahm, could I trouble you for the details of your gaffer. You
know, the one who hired James Moore?"
The other's hand shot away.
"OK, why, yes, of course. Come on back up to the office with me
and I'll dig it out for you," Bonner said, his eyes darting away.
Ten minutes later, Starrett was back in the waiting room again.
He'd been waiting eight minutes by the time Diandra re-entered.
"We're sorry, Inspector Starrett," she began sweetly in her American
singsong voice, "but our project manager on the Creestown job has
since left our employment and returned to his native Cork. I'm sorry
to have to inform you that he left neither a forwarding address nor a
telephone number."
"Oh, bejeepers," was all Starrett could think to say. "Do you have
his name, perchance?"
"Well, here's the thing, it's company policy not to give out
employees' details without first seeking permission from the
employee ..."
"And as you can't contact the employee in question, you . . ."
"Exactly, Mr Starrett. I'm glad you understand our position."
As they were leaving the waiting room, they were just in time to see
Owen Bonner pausing within the frame of his front door. The dark
clouds of imminent rain had replaced the blue sky, and Bonner had put
on a black overcoat.
In that split second, Starrett saw a different Bonner from the professional
PR-conscious, approachable, affable, company chairman who
had entertained him. The man standing in the doorframe looked more
like Johnny Cash's "Man in Black" personified. Like Cash's alter-ego,
the darker character wouldn't always be evident, but you knew it was
always lurking somewhere in the shadows.
The shiver that ran down Starrett's spine confirmed his feeling that,
for all of Bonner's immaculate dress-sense and erudite manners, he certainly
wasn't someone to cross.

Chapter Twenty-Seven





FOR STARRETT, THE conclusion of the Owen Bonner interview
officially marked the end of day two of his investigation into the
crucifixion of James Moore.
The inspector went home, made himself a bite of supper, watched
recorded highlights of the day's sports and was considering retiring to
bed early when, at the last minute, he grabbed his coat and headed
down to the Bridge Bar in Ramelton.
Starrett was bemused by his actions. Ten minutes before, eyes
heavy, he'd set his sights on his bed, but then something deep inside
him produced a pull stronger than the attraction of sleep. It wasn't that
he was a great drinker. In fact, his long-standing record was three pints
of Guinness in a night: when you had a beautiful and nutritious liquid
such as Guinness, you wanted to enjoy it for as long as possible.
As ever on a Saturday night, the Bridge Bar was packed when
Starrett arrived, just as the light was fading at ten o'clock. Henry
McCullough was playing in the back corner. Someone said he used to
play with the Beatles; someone else, who was wearing an anorak, said,
No, don't be silly, Henry used to play with someone who used to play
with the Beatles.' Either way, Starrett enjoyed the soulful sound and
fine playing of Henry's bearded, denim-clad band.
Starrett sidled up to a group of regulars, and the conversation,
shouted above the sound of the band, soon drifted to Donegal's meeting
with Armagh the following day. Packie was already "man of the
match" as far as the Bridge Bar crowd was concerned. Every now and
then, someone would say to Starrett, "Someone here was saying they
wanted to see you." Or: "Someone has been asking for you." History
had taught him that there was always someone wanting to see the local
inspector to settle some dispute or other. The disputes were usually over
land or women, or sometimes, in extreme circumstances, both.
Starrett's stock reply was always, "I'll be happy to comment, but you
have to understand, if I'm here as a member of An Garda Siochana, I'm
going to have to ensure that the drinking stops at 23.00 hours on the
dot." It was usually at this point that all conversations concerning disputes
ceased. The dapper raconteur James McDaid was propping up
his usually corner of the bar. McDaid was deep in conversation with
local entrepreneur John Mclvor over the virtues of the Grateful Dead.
They could be discussing how to dismantle an atomic bomb for all the
sense it made to Starrett. Even the fact that there was a photograph,
taken in this very bar, of Mclvor, McDaid and a certain Jerry Garcia,
was totally lost on Starrett. Both men broke off from the conversation
long enough for McDaid to buy Starrett a pint and to tell him that
there had been someone in the bar asking for him.
Starrett had a sudden flash of the images of Milky and Padraig
Bonner. Might they be the ones asking for him? Starrett very much
doubted it. The Bonners specialised in not giving people advance
notice of their sudden arrival.
The Inspector struggled through the crowd to get a better view of
the band, as a voice behind him said, "This band has more crow's feet
than the entire flock in Hitchcock's classic."
A few seconds later, the same voice said, "What does a girl have to
do around here to get a drink?"
The owner of the voice was so close to him he could feel her breath
on the back of his neck. As he was turning towards her, he instantly
registered the perfume from his previous night's encounter.
"Bejeepers. Dr Aljoe, I presume?" Starrett said. While he was considering
whether to kiss her on the cheek or shake her hand, she made
the decision for him, putting her hand gently on the small of his neck,
pulling him towards her and kissing him lightly on the lips. They lingered
for just a second, but long enough to confirm it was not a kiss of
friendship.
"What are you doing in this neck of the woods?" asked Starrett.
She'd done something extreme with her hair since he'd seen her the previous
evening. The ringlets were more defined and, he noted with
approval, less inclined to the ponytail style. He now noticed most what
incredible teeth she had; he had never in his entire life witnessed molars
so brilliantly white. It was now her smile, and not her hair, that formed
the defining feature of her face. She was dressed in a figure-hugging pair
of denims, pink Ralph Lauren shirt--top three buttons open displaying
the merest hint of cleavage--and a pair of pink pumps.
Starrett also noticed for the first time that she had a dimple on her
chin. She looked just as stunningly attractive as she had the previous
night. Starrett found himself so drawn towards Dr Samantha Aljoe that
he wondered if it had been this subconscious magnetism that had made
him come down to the Bridge Bar and away from the attractions of an
early bed.
"I figured it was about time we had our second date," she said, again
leaning close to him to make herself heard. Her lips were actually brushing
his earlobe as she spoke. The effect of this, together with the allure
of her scents, was extremely arousing. "Besides," she continued above
the music, "I thought getting out of the house was the quickest way to
help ensure that the remaining four months pass quickly."
"And what will you have to drink?" Starrett asked, hoping his
puppy-dog devotion wasn't too noticeable.
"Oh, I'll try one of those," she said, nodding at his Guinness.
Starrett disappeared into the crowd, towards the bar. When he
returned five minutes later, a rubber man was trying to pour himself all
over Dr Aljoe.
"How's about ye?" he slobbered in an Alex Higgins impersonation.
"Excuse me," Starrett said to the intruder, handing the harassed
doctor her stout and putting his next pint beside his half-empty glass
on the ledge next to two high chairs she'd managed to commandeer.
"It's not an excuse-me, mate; it's my dance. Now would ye ever feck
off and leave us alone," the rubber man replied, as he precariously
manoeuvred himself into the chair.
Starrett bit his lip and blew some air through the corners of his
mouth. The man looked to be in his early thirties. He was dressed
expensively but not tastefully and certainly wasn't comfortable in his
attire: fawn suit, red shirt, cream tie and tan leather shoes. His head
was shaved, his face was red, and he looked as if he were confident he
could handle himself. Starrett knew the type too well. They thought
their pronounced Belfast accents were all that was required to scare off
mere mortals like him.
"I think you'll find the wedding reception is next door in the auld
cinema," Starrett said.
"Listen, pal, I'm not going to tell you again," Rubberman began,
slurring his words. "If I was you, I'd get a single ticket out of this one
horse town."
Starrett noticed that people around them had stopped their own
conversations to eavesdrop on what was fast turning into a potential
incident.
"OK," Starrett said with a sigh. "Look, you're not even entertaining,
OK? The lady here is with me, and if you don't mind, I'd really just
like to get back to our enjoyable evening."
"She's with you, is she? She won't be for long. If you don't clear off,
there'll soon be two loud bangs. The first will be me smacking you, and
the second will be you hitting the floor." Rubberman then turned his
back on Starrett and refocused his attention on Dr Aljoe, who seemed,
all things considered, remarkably calm about it all.
Starrett put his hand on Rubberman's shoulder. Rubberman
hopped down from his chair and turned towards Starrett, swinging his
right hand in the general direction of Starrett's nose.
Starrett saw the fist coming and caught it in his left hand.
Rubberman then swung his left, which Starrett caught in his right, his
imperfect bent forefinger sending a shock-wave up his arm and across
his chest. Starrett secured both fists in his hands and started to squeeze
in on them with all his might. At the same time, he used them to pull
Rubberman closer to him until their faces were as little as half an inch
apart.
He whispered, "Stop your fighting, man, for heaven's sake."
Rubberman was still resisting, so Starrett continued using his own
hands as vices, squeezing and squeezing with all his might. He kept
whispering, "Stop your fighting. Stop your fighting."
Eventually, tears of pain appeared from the corner of Rubberman's
eyes and he collapsed to his knees, apparently in agony. Starrett followed
him down, all the time whispering the mantra into his ear. When

they were both on the floor, Starrett stared deep into his eyes and said,
"You'll never ever swing those fists in anger again without causing yourself
horrendous pain. Please believe me, I'm telling you this for your
own good."
Starrett then helped Rubberman up from the floor, and sure
enough didn't he only go and take another swing at Starrett? This time,
although he saw it coming, Starrett just turned slightly so that he took
the full force of the blow on his shoulder. As Rubberman's fist connected,
it was as if someone had connected his fist into the electric
mains supply, and the resultant shock dropped him to the floor, this
time in even more agony than before.
"OK," Starrett whispered in Rubberman's ear as he bent down to
pick him up. "Now I want you to apologise to this beautiful young lady
here and be on your way."
This time the fast-sobering drunk did as he was told.

The whole incident had lasted no more than twenty seconds, and
only a few had witnessed it. Among those who had were McDaid and
Mclvor, who had monitored every move, fearful that they would lose
their precious bar seats if it came to coming to Starrett's aid. They tut
tutted, nodded and smiled knowingly, giving the impression that they'd
witnessed numerous similar incidents throughout lives rich in worldly
experience.
"Now, where were we?" Starrett asked, hopping up on to the stool,
which was second-skin close to Aljoe. If anything, he felt in more danger
than he had during his encounter with the drunk, but this was the
kind of danger he enjoyed.
"I'm impressed, extremely impressed, in fact," Aljoe gushed. "How
did you do that? Where did you learn that manoeuvre?"
"It's mind over matter," Starrett said, brushing an imaginary hair
from his shoulder.
"Sorry?"
"It doesn't matter if he doesn't mind," Starrett said.
"Yeah, Starrett, you had me going until then," she said, lifting her
glass. "I was just about to give you another month off your sentence,
but you really do need to work on your punch lines. But maybe not as
much as that drunk did," she giggled, her gorgeous full lips disappearing
into the creamy-white of the Guinness top.

Chapter Twenty-Eight



FROM SOMEWHERE IN the distance, Starrett heard the sound of
gunshots. He could just about discern that they were grouped in
threes and that there were infrequent gaps between each set.
Still half asleep, he felt his chest, his abdomen, his legs, his privates.
There was no sign of any telltale warm, sticky blood.
Who was being shot? Bang!Bang! Bang!'There it was again. Unless
he was mistaken, they were getting louder. Did this mean that the
assailant was getting closer? He was a detective; surely he should know
these things.
He slowly came awake and realised that the sound he was hearing
was in fact the noise of someone banging on the door.
Starrett found his watch on the bedside table and saw that it was
6.20 a.m. before he dozed off again
Sunday mornings were for lying in. Life-saving Steve's didn't open
on the Sabbath, and so Starrett fasted on that one morning. Usually
he'd rise around noon, stroll into town, pick up the newspapers at
Whoriskey's and stroll back to read them, at the same time playing one
of the few albums he owned. Then he'd read his book, currently Abraham Lincoln: The Prairie Years by Carl Sandberg.
Starrett reasoned that the person disturbing him wasn't a colleague.
No, they'd have rung first, wouldn't they? And his neighbours would
have known better than to disturb him on Sunday morning.
Just then he remembered Friday morning's crucifixion of James
Moore. He grew confused about the number of days that had elapsed
and started to think that maybe he was dreaming that it was a Sunday.
He knew that he had been enjoying a twilight moment between dreamland
and reality, unless, of course, reading 06.20 on his watch was also
part of this dream?
"Holy Shit!" he hissed as he sat bolt upright in his bed in his cosy,
tidy, but totally masculine room, "It's . . ."
Starrett hopped out of bed and pulled his heavy curtains to one
side, raised the window, and stuck his head out into the crisp cold air
to find his hunch visibly confirmed.
He said, "Oh, it's yourself."
"It is, and can I please come in before someone sees me standing
out here like a spare rooster at a hens' party?"
As Starrett hurriedly drew on a pair of jeans, a single question and
its answer flashed through his mind repeatedly.
The answer to his question: "The person now standing outside his
front door."
And the question itself was: "Starrett, who in the world would you
most like to have come calling on you?"
Starrett was so excited that he was having trouble breathing as he
hopped down the narrow, reclaimed antique staircase. He was so
excited that he banged his big toe on the bottom newel as he tried to
cut a nanosecond off his time by taking the corner six inches too early.
In truth, his big toe was in sheer agony, because he'd given it a right
splatter. He would wait until later to deal with the pain.
Starrett could hear his visitor walking impatiently back and forth
across his wide York-stone doorstep. He paused, took a very deep
breath, counted to three and opened the door. All of his composure
immediately dissolved, and in a second he was struggling for breath
again.
"I've been banging on your door for ten minutes, Starrett."
Right, yes, he'd say something soon--as soon as he could catch his
breath. This is stupid, he thought. I'm a man, have been for some years
now, and here I am behaving like a schoolboy. His mind raced off on one
of its tangents, and that disturbing tangent was, "How untidy did I
leave the bed?" He wondered why he'd thought that. That was like putting
two and two together and getting forty-five, which was his age-- and wasn't it about time he started acting it?
"Good morning, Starrett." She was smiling. Maggie wasn't great at
smiling; she never had been. She always looked as if she were about to
cry. She had jet-black hair and well-defined eyebrows, plus long black
eyelashes that cast dark, flickering shadows around her eyes. Starrett
had dreamed for a year full of nights about being allowed to kiss those
beautiful sad eyelids.
She stopped smiling. There, Starrett thought, that's much more the
real Maggie. Her high cheekbones, pert nose and full lips--along with
the eyes--painted a potent picture of sadness. In his numerous and
troublesome dreams, Starrett had never done justice to her classic beauty.
Her black hair was long, kind of curly, mostly unruly, and it always
looked as if she'd started off her day with her hair properly groomed
and clasped up in some grand style, but as the day wore on, wisps had
escaped from here, there and just about everywhere. On most other
women, Starrett thought, the hair would have looked an absolute mess,
but on Maggie Keane, it just looked incredible and, if anything, added
to her sad vulnerability.
"Bejeepers, Maggie, you're on your rounds a bit early today,"
Starrett said as soon as he could catch his breath.
"Yeah, I was hoping to steal the milkman's business, Starrett," she
said in her cheeky Donegal accent. "Can I put you down for a pint a
day and two on Saturday and Sunday?"
"Only if they're pints of Guinness and you promise to deliver yourself,"
Starrett said. "Won't you come on in, Maggie?"
"Jeez, I thought you'd never ask," she said waltzing past him and
into the living room.
She stopped in the middle of the room and looked around.
"It's very you, Starrett, but at the same time, more tidy and classy
than I'd been expecting."
"I'm not sure whether to take that as a compliment or a criticism,"
Starrett replied.
"Oh, it's a compliment; believe you me, it's a compliment," she
said, walking back towards him. She was slightly taller than he was, and
wearing a long, black, summer dress, with little purple flowers peppered
over it. She wore a brown suede, waisted jacket and sensible Camper
walking shoes. None of her clothes were figure-betraying, but she had
the air of someone who was slim and very fit.
But the striking thing about Maggie Keane, as far as Starrett was
concerned, was that she didn't look as if she was a day over twenty, and
yet Starrett knew her date of birth by heart: 14-06-65. Over the years
he had often used those exact digits as combination numbers for locks,
hotel safe codes, anything really where he needed six numbers he could
trust himself to remember.
"Coffee?" Starrett asked.
"OJ?" she countered.
"You're on," Starrett replied, leaving her in the living room and
heading towards the kitchen.
"I was intrigued when I heard you'd started to work on this place,"
she called out after him. "I'd never have put you down as Mr DIY, but
a spy tells me you did most of it yourself. The overall effect is so
American. I really do love the feel of it."
Starrett was happy, maybe even ecstatic, that she had known what he
had been doing. Furthermore, she'd known that he'd done it himself, and
on top of that, she said she'd loved what he had done with it. He was so
lost in this thought and so preoccupied with getting six oranges into the
blasted juicer that he didn't notice her follow him into the kitchen.
"Goodness, Starrett," she praised. "Fresh orange juice and a modern
functional kitchen."
He knew that she was now sending him up.
"How's your mother?" he asked.
"She's fine, thanks to you."
Surely that was yet another compliment? Starrett steadied himself
in preparation for the crash he was sure was imminent.
"And your kids?" Starrett asked, working on the theory that all
mothers were so proud of their children, they could often be distracted
from other courses by the mere mention of their offspring.
"Joe is great; he's nineteen now. He's brilliant at maths, and he
looks just like Paul Newman as Butch Cassidy. I think he's going to be
a heartbreaker. Moya and Katie are nine and ten respectively and, well
¦ . they're all so lovely it's humbling, to be honest. And you, Starrett,
how are you and your English doctor getting along?"
There it was: the sting in the tail.
Even though he'd been on his guard, it still took him by surprise. It
was not so much that Maggie Keane was so up to date on his current
romantic social standing that surprised him as that she'd just made him
feel like he'd been caught cheating.
Starrett switched off the juicer, feeling Maggie's eyes glaring into
the back of his neck. He reached up to the cupboard to his left and
pulled down two tall glasses, into which he poured the orange juice.
He turned to Maggie and handed her one. As he looked into her eyes,
he knew that he could never lie to her again.
"What can I tell you, Maggie?" he started, watching as she took a
long drink, draining her OJ in one swig. "I've known her for a while
professionally, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, it's evolved
into something over the last couple of days."
"This time it's serious though, isn't it, Starrett?" Maggie Keane said,
as much an admission to herself as a question for the detective.
"Oh, Maggie," Starrett sighed. "I haven't seen you in--what?--in
nearly two decades, and then I receive a call about your mam's bogus
gas suppliers, and here you are making me feel like I'm visiting the confessional
for the very first time. Tell you what, how's about I make us
both a bite of brecky?"
"Oh my goodness," she said. "He cooks now as well. Haven't you
become the modern man?"
"Necessity is the mother--"
"--of the frying pan," she interrupted. "You can count me in,
though. I don't usually do breakfast, but then I don't normally do dawn
visits either."
Feeling self-conscious with Maggie scrutinising his every move,
Starrett set about preparing breakfast. It wasn't a totally unpleasant
experience. Yes, there was something of an atmosphere between them,
but then, at the same time, there was a kind of bond.
"Look, hi..." Starrett started somewhat hesitantly. "Maggie, I was
very sorry to hear about Niall."
"Yes, I got your wreath, Starrett," she said in a gentle voice. "I was
very touched by that."
She paused, stoking up her energy and breath, and saying in a
much louder voice, "Starrett, if Niall hadn't died, I wouldn't be here
today."
Starrett wasn't exactly sure what she meant, but he didn't feel it
appropriate to ask her.

"Niall was a great husband and a loving father, and he saved me
from myself at a time when I quite simply needed saving. In the end,
he knew what was happening to him. The doctors had given him eighteen
months, and I didn't know anything at all about it. He kept it from
the kids and me. He didn't tell me about the cancer until the last four
weeks. He'd set everything up; we're well taken care of. You know, he
never spoke to me about you until he was dying. I think he was really
trying to find a way of. .." She paused and wandered over to the cooker,
peeking over his shoulder. "Oh, that smells good. I think I'm going
to have to revise my opinion of breakfasts."
She helped herself to what remained of the OJ in the juicer and
carried it over to the high-backed stool by the window. As she looked
out way past the horizon, she said, "You've got a great view here,
Starrett."
Yes, I know, I'm looking at her now, he thought.
"An ideal vantage point for you to spy on the girls who drive up to
see you."
Starrett sighed good-humouredly.
"Tell me, Starrett, what is it with you and women? If it's not an
obsession, then it's definitely a preoccupation. Don't get me wrong,
it's not what you would call unhealthy. And yet," she said, "there's
never ever been one of them who've had anything bad to say about
you."
The smell wafting around the kitchen was enough to turn a vegetarian
on to bacon and pork sausages. Starrett was doing the knives,
forks, plates, cups and saucers thing as he said, "Well, Maggie, I will
admit, yes, I am very interested in women . . ."
She cocked her head and raised her eyebrows.
"... professionally speaking, of course. Ninety-five per cent of all
crime in Donegal is relationship-related. I need to understand women.
I mean, if I'm to have any chance at all of doing my job properly, I need
to have some understanding of what's going on in your minds."
"And what have you learned so far, Inspector Starrett, from all this
first-hand research?"
"Nothing," Starrett admitted immediately. "Absolutely nothing.
That is, apart from the fact that women are from . . ."
"O sweet Jesus, Starrett, please don't say 'Venus'."
"Actually, I was going to say, 'Women are from women and men
are from women and men.'"
"Aye, well, but it wouldn't have looked as good on the auld dust
jacket," she said, breaking into another of her awkward smiles.
Starrett wondered just how difficult Maggie was finding all of this.
And just why was she here? Was it because Maggie had decided that
her husband had been dead long enough--three years and one month?
Or was she scared that Starrett was getting too close to Samantha Aljoe?
Starrett placed the six rashers of bacon on to a strip of kitchen-roll,
using a second piece to dab away any excess fat from the surface.
"Nice trick, Starrett," she said, coming up behind him to study his
technique. She was right beside him and, probably unconsciously, she
lifted up her left hand and rubbed his back in a circular motion.
Starrett was suddenly aware that her hand had frozen mid-motion.
She raised her offending hand to cover the "Oh" her blood-red lips were
making.
"Look, Starrett," she said, just as he was about to turn towards her
with the two plates of breakfast, "I'm so, so sorry, but I just can't do this
yet."
Without another word, she whooshed, ghostlike, across the
kitchen, her dress rustling in her wake. He heard the front door close
behind her.
"Should I keep your breakfast warm or what?" Starrett asked himself
quietly.

Chapter Twenty-Nine



THAT PUT A kind of dampener on Starrett's Sunday. Instead of
moping around, thinking of what might have been, he decided
to go into Tower House, review the case and write up his
crime book.
When he'd finished, he jotted down on a notepad some thoughts
about several areas that warranted further investigation.

1.	Amanda Morrison: she must surely have more information.
2.	Ivan Morrison: no matter how unlikely it may seem, the churchman must be high up the list of
potential suspects because of potential motive and
opportunity.
3.	Owen Bonner: by virtue of his reputation, he is worth a closer look.
4.	Daniel McGuinness: I've read and reread the interview between Gibson and Garvey, and something
makes me uneasy about it. I'm not exactly
sure what it is, but I'll need to interview
McGuinness myself ASAP.
5.	Betsy Bell: who else has Betsy told about Amanda & Moore's affair? Who else has Amanda had an
affair with?
6.	Colm Donovan: as Moore's long-term friend, he
told Garvey & Gibson remarkably little about
him.
7.

Once Starrett had written down the number 7, he couldn't think of
anything to put there. Yes, he intended to speak to Nora Moore again
when she was in a fit state to do so. On top of that, he'd like to have
had more evidence to work with. Remarkably little had been turned up
so far.
Starrett could hear keys jangling in the distance, then doors slamming
and two sets of feet marching up a corridor. He assumed it was
the sound of one of the previous night's inebriated guests being
released, about to face the real rough justice of his wife.
The garda station was, of course, open on Sundays, but operated
on a skeletal staff. Sundays, unlike Saturdays, were bad days for police
business. Well, Starrett corrected himself, they were good days, in that
people in his neck of the woods rarely broke the law on the Sabbath,
since the men of the cloth ruled the parish with a bigger stick than An
Garda Siochana did. Now they'd be entertaining and rejuvenating their
flocks. In the good old days, they would also have been publicly berating
and shaming the congregations from the pulpit.
Starrett decided that he would break the habit of his adult life and
follow the masses to church on that particular crisp early-summer
morning.
"I'll need a tie," he said to himself as he hoaked about in his desk
drawer until he found one that a) wasn't too wrinkled and b) matched
his light blue shirt.
As he walked up the steep incline of Bridge Street, Starrett realised,
with a certain degree of humour, that he hadn't actually been to a
church service since he'd left Ireland for England all those years ago.
Well, to the odd wedding, christening and funeral, but he'd never voluntarily
visited a house of worship to celebrate his faith or to claim the
apparent abundant forgiveness the clergy were keen to dish out. He
wondered how much sinning would continue if the various churches
did not continue to offer large helpings of absolution. Why wouldn't
anyone be encouraged to enjoy the odd sin or two when all they had
to do to achieve absolution was to troop into their respective house of
worship and throw a few cents on to the collection plate?
Today Starrett fancied checking out the quality of forgiveness that
the Second Federation Church dished out.


As Starrett quietly chose a pew at the back of the church, he was happy,
extremely happy, that he'd worn a shirt and tie. The congregation of
the Second Federation Church was by far the best-dressed congregation
he had ever beheld.
All the men and boys were dressed in jackets and pressed trousers
or suits, shirts and ties. No female wore trousers, and every woman
wore a hat. He recognised several people amongst the fine rosewood
pews whom he'd never have dreamed would have been members of
anything quite as liberal as this 'godless church'.
There was Tom, Harriet and their son Dick, who owned the garage
out on the Milford Road. Starrett had always filed them as a mixed
marriage and therefore a family who sang under no spire, but here they
were singing their hearts out under the Second Federation Church's
hammer and pen emblem. Starrett thought it looked slightly communistic.
There was Declan and Diane McCluskey, famously big fans of
the Bachelors singing group, because they'd named their four girls
Charmaine, Ramona, Marie and Marta. Starrett had always figured
them to be lapsed Catholics: lapsed because Declan had been married
before and he'd had to go to Manchester to secure his divorce decree.
And then there was the new family in town from Sligo: Ivor Gallagher,
his wife Patricia and their children Paddy, Jack, Roisin and Dolores. It
certainly hadn't taken them long to find room in the Inn of the
Beginning. But what surprised him most was the presence of a couple
of gardai and their wives and families, all of them singing their hearts
out.
The first minister was playing to a packed house. Starrett wondered
if this was a common occurrence or if there were extra bodies on board
because of the church's recent notoriety. There, in the expensive seats,
proud as punch and shining like a new pin, was Betsy Bell, leading the
choir in both voice and fashion. She was singing loudly enough for nearby
rival churches to take their tuning from her perfect pitch.
Starrett thought he recognised the tune. Bejeepers, he did. The
organ was filling in the brass riffs: Da Ta Dat Ta Da followed by Betsy
leading her fellow worshipers into the chorus of "Sweet Caroline", a
flipping Neil Diamond song! What would they be singing next? "I'm
A Believer", Starrett shouldn't wonder.
At the end of "Sweet Caroline", there was a great deal of hustling
and bustling and rumbling and rustling of clothes as the congregation
sat down as one.
Ivan Morrison rose from his grand, engraved wooden chair and,
slowly and deliberately, climbed the nine steps up into the pulpit, the
tail of his cassock arriving a second or two later.
"Greetings, brothers and sisters," he began in his fine baritone
voice, which boomed into every corner of the church. "All we have is
each other. But that's not all, because that's enough More and more,
brothers and sisters, we seem to be having a hard time accepting this,
because some of us start to look for additional pleasures to fill our lives.
Some of us start to seek out other distractions to help us along. What
we have to realise is that by breaking the rules of life, all we do is bring
unhappiness to ourselves and, consequently, to those close to us.
Subsequently this disharmony prevents our community from functioning
properly."
After several minutes along the same theme, Starrett's mind wandered.
As an orator, the first minister was hardly JFK.
"So, what we need to do," Morrison was saying, sounding like he
might be winding up, "is to be there for each other, to help pull each
other from the wreckage of life." He paused, hands outstretched at a
ten-to-two angle, looking down towards the floor. Perhaps he's checking
if his shoes are shiny enough, Starrett thought, always assuming he can see
his shoes. The first minister looked back to his adoring flock and said,
"I vow to be there for my fellow men."
"We vow to be there for our fellow men," the congregation said in
a singsong reply.
"Now, we'd like you all to join in with this wonderful choir of ours
and help them sing 'Don't Think Twice, It's All Right'."
Starrett didn't recognise the song. If he'd known that the Second
Federation Church's themed lyrics had come from the pen of none
other than Bob Dylan, he might have been extremely shocked. They
sang two other songs Starrett wasn't familiar with. In the first, Ray
Davies' "Days", the sentiment "I thank you for the days" was right there
in the middle of the Second Federation's park. During, "Have I Told
You Lately That I Love You?" Starrett overheard someone close to him
whisper, "Rod Stewart does an excellent version of this one."
After the singing, Ivan Morrison read out a summary of the week's
events, during which he publicly welcomed the Sligo family into their
midst. Morrison used the pulpit to plug Ivor Gallagher's trade, and said
he hoped "all of us will be able to find some work for his very capable
hands".
Starrett wondered if there was a chance Morrison had personally
recruited Mr Gallagher to their community as a replacement for James
Moore and if his work for his uncle had dried up already to warrant
Morrison's plug from the pulpit.
At the conclusion of the public announcements, everyone closed
their eyes and bowed their heads in prayer.
"We thank each other for our family and friends," Morrison said
solemnly.
"Thanks you, brothers and sisters, for our families and friends,"
the congregation replied.
"We thank each other for our food," Morrison continued.
"Thank you, brothers and sisters, for our food," the flock replied.
"We thank each other for our clothes."
"Thank you, brothers and sisters, for our clothes."
"We thank each other for our homes," Morrison concluded.
"Thank you, brothers and sisters, for our homes," his flock finished.
The choir then led them in a gospel-music style version of "Teach
Your Children". Starrett felt it was a beautiful song to finish the service
with. It was one of those songs which, because of its perfect melody,
made you feel you already knew it well enough to risk attempting to
join in. He certainly had no problems with the sentiment of the
lyrics--that it's the parents' responsibility to teach their children well.
At the conclusion of the song, as if on cue, the sun outside broke
through the clouds and shone its bright light through the stained-glass
window behind Morrison and the choir. It was quite spectacular and,
if you were so inclined, could well be deemed a spiritual moment.
Starrett reflected on the differences in the atmosphere in the Second
Federation Church between the joyous service he'd just enjoyed and the
last time he'd attended the church just two days earlier.
Then the service was over and that was it. The choir gently sang the
repeated refrain, "Take good care of each other", as the congregation
filed orderly out of their pews in twos and threes and blinked on the
doorstep to accustom their eyes to the bright sunlight.
As religious services went, it was certainly one of the best Starrett
had attended, due in no small part to the joyousness of the music. He
was surprised by the feel-good factor he experienced through sharing
this music with a couple of hundred people.
"Ah, Inspector Starrett," Morrison said, when it was Starrett's turn
to blink his way out into the sunshine. "I thought I recognised your
face in there, although I must admit I couldn't quite make out your
voice amongst the others singing."
"I believe I enjoy a register which can be picked up only by dogs
and bats, First Minister Morrison," Starrett said, shaking the offered
hand. "Look, I know this may not be a good time, but I do need to
have another chat with you."
Morrison kept on shaking the detective's hand and smiling at him.
Starrett supposed it was for the benefit of the other parishioners.
"I'll tell you what, Starrett," Morrison said. "Have you any plans
for lunch?"
"Actually, no."
"Splendid," the first minister replied, the creases of his smile
unshifting. "Why don't you join me at the Manse in, say, twenty minutes,
and we can break bread and enjoy some wine together."
"You're on," Starrett said, just before Morrison was distracted by
another parishioner in search of his clammy hand.

Chapter Thirty



STARRETT DECIDED TO go for a walk by the side of the Swilly to
fill the twenty minutes.
For the first part of his journey, there were several modern
houses blocking his view of the water, but soon he'd left them behind,
and the single-lane road snaked its way between the water on the left
and the rolling hills opposite. There was only one more house on the
road, at the very end on the right, and that had recently been refurbished
in keeping with its hundred or so years' history. Houses, particularly
old houses and the stories they could tell, fascinated Starrett.
Donegal could still boast numerous old country houses, many of which
were falling into ruin because the owners had died without heirs, or
else new generations couldn't agree on how to proceed with their legacies.
Family life and family pride often seemed to follow a troubled
pathway.
Starrett wondered about Dr Sam Aljoe's family life.
He thought about the coincidences of fate. He knew that she could
quite easily have gone back with him to his house the previous evening.
There was a moment in his car, just after midnight, when he believed
she would have offered him a reprieve for his final four months if he'd
asked for it. But he hadn't. They'd cooled down and kissed each other
goodnight, both believing that they were happy to hold out so that they
would eventually make great love together.
Or maybe, Starrett wondered, was there a something, or a someone,
holding him back from taking the final step?
More distressing was the thought of what would have happened at
6.20 that morning had Dr Aljoe actually accompanied him back to his
house the previous evening. But Samantha Aljoe had returned home
alone.
And what had Maggie meant when she'd said, "I'm so, so sorry, but
I just can't do this yet"?
Can't do what exactly?
Can't make love because she wasn't ready?
Can't become friends again, because she'd left a roast in the oven
back at home?
He wondered if she'd actually meant, "Let's just leave this a while
longer." And if that was what she did mean, what was the "while
longer"? Hours, weeks, months or years?
Maggie Keane had certainly been out of his life for a long, long
time, but--as she'd proved that very morning--the length of time had
not weakened her power over him. In fact, if anything, it was even
stronger than it had been.
Thinking of the two women made him feel hungry. Then he
remembered that he had a lunch date in approximately three minutes,
at a location at least five minutes' walk away.


On reaching the Manse, Starrett was greeted by Agga, the maid, who
showed him straight into the dining room, where Morrison was already
seated at the table, looking keen as Colman's to get stuck in. As soon
as Starrett was seated, the first minister asked Agga to serve the soup.
"Any news from your wife yet?" Starrett asked, unfolding his blue
napkin.
Morrison addressed himself to the maid: "Agga, is there any word
from Mrs Morrison?"
"No, First Minister," she replied.
"No news from my wife, Inspector," Morrison said, tearing into
his soup before the ripples had a chance to calm.
"If you don't mind me saying so, First Minister, you don't seem at
all concerned," Starrett said, the scent of potatoes and leeks floating up
from the steaming hot soup.
"Look, Inspector, in this life, man should not waste his time trying
to bring about changes to things outside his control. I can't just magic
her up out of the air, now, can I? I mean, she was here and then she was
gone, and either she is going to come back or she's not."
"But surely she could be in danger, First Minister."
"If you really thought she was in danger, you would have asked
about her the minute we met on the steps of the church this morning."
"But she's your wife," Starrett said, trying another approach. He
was beginning to wonder if the first minister and Betsy Bell were in
each other's confidence.
"You've never been married, have you, Inspector?"
"No, I never have," Starrett admitted. "I mean, I think marriage is
a great invention, but then again, so is a bicycle pump."
Morrison merely grunted, and Starrett continued: "The way I've
always looked at it--and no offence, First Minister--but unless both
lives are going to benefit greatly from the marriage, then one quite simply
just shouldn't bother."
"Well, of course, there are many reasons why two people get married:
for companionship, convenience, or for financial motives. In my
particular case, we both felt we'd achieve something from the marriage
that we couldn't get elsewhere."
"Yes, yes, I understand all of that, I really do, and I hate to labour
the point about your particular marriage, but here are the facts as I see
them: your wife was having an affair with James Moore; James Moore
was murdered--"
"Excuse me, but James Moore was crucified, Inspector," Morrison
broke in. "Crucified in my church."
"Technically he was murdered, First Minister; the method of murder
was crucifixion."
"People never say that Jesus Christ was murdered. They always talk
about him being crucified. It wouldn't have been enough merely to
murder Him. No, he had to be publicly humiliated and destroyed."
"Are you saying that whoever killed James Moore felt the need, not
just to kill him, but also to humiliate and destroy him in public?"
Starrett asked.
"I'm saying that you'd be wrong not to consider that point of view
at least. We are no longer--at least not on the face of it--the barbaric
race we were at the time of Jesus' death. So James Moore was crucified
in private, and his remains were displayed in public."
"Can I just backtrack a wee bit?" Starrett said, ignoring his ever
cooling soup. He found it very difficult to eat and talk simultaneously.
Morrison, experiencing no such difficultly, slurped away as Starrett
continued, "I just wanted to pick up on the reason why James Moore
was crucified, and why he wasn't just murdered in some other way."
"Well, think about it, Inspector," Morrison said. "Wouldn't it have
just been so much easier to have shot him, stabbed him or poisoned
him, and disposed of the body in the Swilly with a concrete block
chained to his feet? So, you have to ask yourself, why would his assassin
need to crucify him?"
"OK, I'll bite."
"My belief is that the assassin felt Moore was a fornicator, and he
was crucified so that he could have his soul saved, and--maybe more
importantly--have the soul of his partner rescued. Simple as that,"
Morrison grunted, before returning his attention to his soup. "Now,
Inspector, you tell me why you think he was crucified and not just murdered
by lead, steel, air or water."
"I don't know. Perhaps the assassin felt that by staging the murder
as a crucifixion, they had a better chance of avoiding detection."
"So you genuinely think that the whole thing was a charade to mis?"
you
direct
"That is a distinct possibility, First Minister."
"If you really believe that, then I think there is a danger you may
be overlooking a vital clue."
"I'm intrigued," Starrett replied, finally tasting his soup, which was
indeed as delicious as the aroma had promised. "But look, I hope you
don't mind me saying this, but you'd be the person with the most obvious
motive, and so you would have to become our chief suspect when
the body was found in your church."
"Oh, I'm a suspect, am I?" Morrison laughed, soaking up the
remains of the creamy soup with a piece of wheaten bread, and using
his fingers to stuff the bread into his mouth. "Well, if I were a suspect,
do you think I'd be offering you this insight into the case? I'm very
comfortable with the fact that I know I didn't do it."
Starrett laughed. "Rarely do murderers ever admit, 'I did it, I'm
your man, Garda.' Besides, you could be trying to dodge me off your
trail."
Morrison shrugged his shoulders in a noncommittal manner.
Once the chicken and vegetables had been served, Starrett continued.
"I need to ask you a more delicate question. We now know that
your wife was conducting an affair with Mr James Moore . . ."
"You now know," Morrison snapped at Starrett, completely ignoring
his food. "What? You mean, you shared a bed with them?"
"No, but. . ."
"You mean that you personally witnessed them making love?"
"No, but. . ."
"For heaven's sake, it's a small town. Amanda is a beautiful woman.
Idle tongues and empty vessels make the most noise and cause the most
hurt."
"OK, well, let me ask you another question. Was your wife having
a relationship with anyone else?"
"Another relationship," Morrison barked, spitting out the majority
of his mouthful of chicken, broccoli and new potatoes. "What on earth
has poor Amanda done to deserve all of this?"
"I'm sorry, First Minister, but I really do need to find out if she was
cheating on you."
"For someone to cheat on you, they would first have to deceive
you. In my marriage with Amanda, she has never ever cheated on me.
We both live our lives, and we both get on with them. All I require
from Amanda is discretion. The relationship, as you refer to it, with
Moore, if one existed, would have been unique in that it would have
been the first time she betrayed me."
"I was asking if you were aware of any extra-marital affairs she may
have been involved in besides the one with Mr Moore--if such a one
existed in the first place. I am not making any judgements on your marriage
here, just trying to uncover as much about the dead man as I can.
James Moore is dead, he was mur . . . sorry, he was crucified in your
church and, around the same time, your wife disappeared, so . . ."

"So, you figure that if it wasn't me as a jealous husband, then it
might have been a jealous ex-lover?"
"Well, yes," Starrett admitted.
"I'm afraid I really can't help you there. It isn't a case of my having
my head buried in the sand; it's more a case of what I don't know won't
hurt me."
"But that's a bit different from what you were claiming a moment
or two ago, when you suggested that your marriage was open."
"Yes," Morrison sighed. "But I also pointed out that I need discretion.
No one wants to have his face rubbed in the dirt, particularly, as
I say, the dirt of this town."
"OK, fair point," Starrett replied. "Would you please tell me this,
then: when exactly did you find out that there may have been something
going on between Amanda and James Moore?"
"On Friday morning," First Minister Morrison replied, as a forkful
of green beans disappeared into his mouth.
"The morning the body was discovered?"
"Yes."
"And how did you find out?" Starrett pushed.
"My caretaker, Thomas Black, discovered the body. Of course, he
immediately told me. He's a very loyal servant, and he felt that because
of what had happened to Moore, I would be better equipped to deal
with things if I knew about the rumours that were circulating."

"Better equipped for what?"
"Better equipped to deal with the fact that there was a possibility
that the relationship was a reality and possibly about to become common
knowledge."
"And that was really the first time you heard about it?" Starrett asked.
"And that really was the first time I heard about it."
"Let's go back to the point about your wife going missing. Does
that happen much?"
"It's not so much that she goes missing as that she goes away, doing
her own thing. We update our diaries weekly, and Amanda is always
available to attend our agreed functions and events, but aside from that,
we're both totally free to tend to our own social preferences."
"But with Mr Moore being murdered on the same day Amanda
went missing, and taking into consideration the information Mr
Thomas Black gave you, were you not worried that there might have
been some kind of connection?"
"Not at all, Inspector. I was convinced it was nothing more than
another shopping trip. I've got loftier things to worry about than the
stress my wife is causing her credit card!"
After that, the lunch proceeded in near silence, and Starrett walked
away from the Manse having listened to a lot of blathering but not having
collected much information. He'd also been served up plenty of
food.
He dropped in briefly to Tower House, brought the crime book up
to date and added Thomas Black's name into the vacant number seven
slot on his notepad.
He went home and watched Donegal beat Armagh, and as predicted
in the Bridge Bar the previous evening, Packie Garvey was indeed
the man of the match.

Chapter Thirty-One


THEN IT WAS Monday, a new day, a new week, a new month,
and Starrett was at his desk at 06.45.
Nuala Gibson and Francis Casey added further fuel to
Starrett's suspicions of a budding relationship by arriving together.
Unfortunately for them, Starrett was hanging around the reception area
of Tower House, checking the overnight bulletins from headquarters,
as they arrived. They signed in at a very respectable 07.22.
"Nuala and Francis," Starrett said. "I'm very impressed. Members
of the gardai clocking in before eight o'clock is as rare a sight as chicken
lips."
"Rare, and they're probably just as dangerous to kiss, I would imagine,"
Gibson replied. Casey shot her a recriminating glance.
"Francis, do us an auld favour would you?" Starrett said. "Wait
around for Packie, give him my congratulations on yesterday's result,
and then you and he hightail it up to have a wee chat with Thomas
Black, the caretaker at the Second Federation Church."
"Not a bother," Casey replied.
"Fair play to you," Starrett continued, sprightly. "I'm going to commandeer
Bean Gharda Gibson here, and we're going to scoot out and
revisit the mountain."
"Would that be Muckish or Dan the Man McGuinness you'd be
referring to, Inspector?" Gibson asked.
"Listen to her, would you," Starrett said, nodding at Casey. "We'll
have to try and get her on the Late, Late Show, won't we?"
Casey beamed in pride, betraying to Starrett how smitten the
novice garda was.
Ten minutes later, Gibson and Starrett, with Starrett at the wheel,
had reached Milford and turned off on to the R245 towards Carrigart.
It really was a beautiful drive, and Starrett was relieved that Gibson
was confident enough not to need to fill the empty air with conversation.
The narrow road wound its way through a stretch of dramatic
woodland before delivering them to the broad water of Mulroy Bay at
Cranford. They could see a small flotilla of bobbing fishing boats
guarding the fish farms. It was somewhere around this neck of the
woods that two assassins of yesteryear had set out in a small boat to
sail to the other side of the bay to dish out some rough justice to the
third Earl of Leitrim. Starrett and Gibson drove through more trees
and on into the hills generously peppered with houses. To Starrett, the
buildings seemed to follow a certain kind of (barely) logical plan.
Every now and then, you'd have a truly grand Georgian house, which
would be surrounded by several neo-South Fork dormer bungalows.
Obviously this Donegal-favoured style was the local way to get around
the planning office's preoccupation with single-storey dwellings. On
and on they drove, under a cloudless and deep-blue sky, passing an
occasional herd of black and white cows grazing dangerously close to
the water to their right.
In Carrigart most of the shops had set public seats outside.
"That's probably why Dan McGuinness likes it around here,"
Gibson observed. "Just so he can have a wee breather outside each and
every shop he visits."
Again the McGuinness children managed to convince the gardai
that their father most definitely wasn't in. This time they swore it was
true.
So Starrett and Gibson returned to Starrett's BMW and continued
on down the Atlantic Drive, along the grassy sand dunes, past the
legendary Rosapenna Hotel, which had been around for well over a
hundred years but still hadn't discovered the recipe for lunchtime
scrambled eggs, and down into Downings, as you do.
There was certainly far more activity around the Moore household
than there had been when Starrett had first visited the previous Friday.
A couple of middle-aged men were standing in the doorway,
smoking and chatting, switching from foot to foot as if the pavement
were too hot for their feet. Neither Starrett nor Gibson recognised
either man.
"Aye, how's it going and all?" the elder of the two said by way of
greeting to the gardai.
"Aye, fine," Starrett replied.
"Youse catch the rat, yet?" the other asked. They were both
northerners.
"We're still working on it," Nuala Gibson replied.
The conversation seemed to dry up, and the four of them stood in
silence for a moment.
"It's a wild habit," the elder man observed, raising his cigarette
butt, not so much in conversation about their doorstep activity but
more in explanation as to why they weren't inside.
"Aye, indeed it is," Starrett replied, remembering the eight cigarettes
he had left in Packie's top pocket.
The older man stood down from the step and swung open the
front door of James Moore's house for them.
"How's the missus of the house?" Starrett asked, just before they
walked in.
"Aye now, the form's not great," the older one replied.
"Ah, but sure then, how would it be?" the other added as Starrett
and Gibson disappeared into the house.
In fact, when Starrett and Gibson went into the front room, they
found Nora Moore in reasonably good spirits. The distraction of busying
herself with fussing over her guests was helping. There were seven
people in the front room, still known in some households as the "good
room", because it was used only on Sundays, or when visitors came calling,
or when the children were courting or, as was currently the case,
for a wake. Nora was there with her "good teapot", doing the rounds
and refreshing everyone's brew. Following behind was her son, Chris,
with a plate of biscuits. A woman dressed to the nines in a purple suit,
whose hair--a brittle-looking spider trap--had obviously spent too
many hours under her hairdresser's dryer, was perched on the very edge
of her chair, looking as if she feared she might catch something from
it. She was the only one in the room using a cup with a saucer, which
had to be balanced precariously on her lap every time she took a sip.
Despite this, she looked as if she'd been the centre of attention and conversation
before the gardai had arrived, and she didn't look best pleased
that she'd been interrupted mid-flow.
Without any preamble, she turned to Starrett and said, "And when
will the family be receiving the remains?"
Nora stopped pouring the tea and looked around.
"Well, we're hoping to do that as soon as possible," Starrett replied
solemnly.
"And can you not give us a clue as to when 'as soon as possible'
might be? My sister can't reconcile her grieving until she has the
remains to bury."
"Inspector Starrett," Chris Moore said, "this is my aunt Peggy.
Aunty Peggy, this is Inspector Starrett and, ehm . . ."
"Garda Nuala Gibson," Starrett said.
"Yes," the conscientious son continued. "Inspector Starrett here is
leading the investigation into my father's death."
"Oh, if that's the case, Inspector," Aunty Peggy said, "perhaps I
might have a word with you out in the garden?"
Before Starrett had a chance to reply, Chris Moore continued the
introductions. To Aunty Peggy's left was another woman, smaller and
wearing less showy clothing. "This is Mrs Artery, our next-door neighbour,"
Chris said. "And this is Mr David Brigham and Mr David
Brown--the two Davids. They own the hotel next door."
Then, pointing to a very niftily dressed elderly man, "And this is
Mr Gerry McGinley from the St Vincent de Paul. He's been very kind
to us. This..."--he pointed to the corner of the room, which had been
hidden behind the door Starrett and Gibson were blocking--". . . is
Mr Daniel McGuinness."
Starrett had to admit that McGuinness didn't look anywhere near
as big as Packie and Nuala had described him. Nonetheless, he was still
grossly overweight, and obviously a regular visitor because he seemed
to be sitting on his own specially reinforced stool, which looked to
Starrett more like a slightly undersized, if necessarily sturdy, table. As
on his last meeting with the gardai, he was dressed in black and was
resting both his arms on a walking stick held out in front of himself.
"I'll be out of your hair now, Nora," the discreet Gerry McGinley
said as he stood up and put his empty teacup down on the table. Then
he went over to Chris and put his arm around the boy's shoulders and
whispered, "But don't forget, Chris, if you or your mother need anything
else, you've got my number. Just give me a call, no matter about
the time."
"He's a very nice man," Nora said to Starrett as Chris showed the
St Vincent de Paul volunteer to the door.
"Yes," the Inspector replied. "I'm sure." He then turned his attention
to Aunt Peggy: "Sorry, Mrs Cowan."
"Everyone around here calls me Aunty Peggy; you can call me
Aunty Peggy, too."
"You said you wanted a word ..." Starrett looked pointedly
towards the door that led into the garden. Aunt Peggy rose to her feet,
brushed the crumbs off her purple skirt and, handing her cup and
saucer to Chris, led the way outside.
Before they could reach the door, Nora rolled her eyes and said to
Starrett, "Thank you for coming out, Inspector. I'm sorry I was in such
a state on Friday; we'll have a chat when Aunty Peggy is finished with
you."
Once she'd got Starrett out into the garden, Aunty Peggy Cowan
had no time for niceties. "Right, Inspector, we're all adults around here.
We all know what's going on. Jimmy had strayed, and I will admit to
you, Inspector, he is the last man in this town I would have accused of
having roving eyes. But there you are, and here we all are as a result of
it. I did mention to Nora on more than one occasion that it would
serve her better to remember that it was Jimmy she was married to and
not that fat lump McGuinness."
Starrett's face obviously reflected his surprise.
"Oh, and don't go looking at me like that, Inspector; of course,
nothing was going on. I mean, just look at him; the very thought
could bring on one of my migraines. But they were behaving like two
schoolkids, always stealing off here, there and everywhere for their cappuccinos
and croissants. There are two more things the French have to
answer for! You see, Daniel and Nora had a thing all those years ago,
and then Nora ran off with your man from the Rosapenna Hotel.
Well, she didn't really run off with him anywhere other than to the
sand dunes. Anyway, Daniel either wasn't there or else didn't care to
pick up the pieces; and that was where poor Jimmy stepped in. They
got married; Daniel got himself hitched to someone else. Both had
families; both marriages turned into disasters. Then they decided that
it was each other that they had really, really loved in the first place. It
truly makes me sick; all this revisiting unresolved childhood romance
stuff that's going on these days. You know, you want to give them a
good shaking, bang their heads together and say, 'The reason it didn't
work out all those years ago was simply because you just weren't meant
for each other!'"
Aunty Peggy's voice rose to such a volume during the last part of
her speech that Starrett was convinced that all those back in the
house--not to mention the entire population of Downings--were
party to her feelings.
"Well, that certainly throws a new light on things," Starrett said, as
much to himself as to Aunty Peggy.
"Oh, my goodness," Peggy said, looking like a diva estranged from
her stage. "You mean to tell me that you didn't know Daniel and Nora
used to be an item?"
"I believe he did mention it to one of my officers," Starrett replied.
"But I think we were all thinking in terms of two love-sick teenagers."
"Look, Inspector, my sister, well. . . truth be told, she's not really
very interested in s-e-x, if you know what I mean?" Aunty Peggy paused
and looked around her to make sure no one was listening in. She was
speaking in a voice not much above a whisper, using her lips to make
mouth-wide gestures in order to emphasise and make sure her point
was hitting home. "I think that she latched on to someone who would
not distress her with any untoward s-e-x-u-a-1 demands. Daniel
McGuinness ... do you see what I mean? Yes, she was as unhappy with
her lot as Jimmy was with his, but, unlike him, she wasn't about to do
anything about it. However, if by rekindling some sort of connection
with Daniel, she was able to be involved in an illicit relationship--and
I'm talking platonically illicit now--well, then, that really was all she
needed."
"And what about him?" Starrett asked. "What would he have
gained from the relationship?"
"Maybe even the same thing. For instance, if he'd tried to strike up
a relationship with anyone else, heaven forbid, perhaps they would have
put s-e-x-u-a-l demands on him. No . . ." she said, shaking her head
furiously from left to right. "I don't believe that there was anything like
that going on between them."
"OK, Mrs Cowan . . ."
"Aunty Peggy, please, Inspector. Everyone calls me Aunty Peggy."
"OK, Aunty Peggy," Starrett continued, feeling uncomfortable
addressing a woman he'd never met before in such intimate terms. "I'd
like to ask if you thought James was aware of Dan's attentions to his
wife."
"Ehm," Aunty Peggy said, drawing the word out into three syllables.
"Not exactly in that way, if you know what I mean. Daniel McGuinness
is a professional visitor. He has been for five or so years now, ever since
his accident. He has a circuit, and he'll drop in on the people he favours,
I'd say, at least three times a week. People welcome him. He's a bit of a
character, and to be fair to the poor soul, he's had a hard life. The wife
upped and left him for a bodhran player, for heaven's sake; but, anyway,
then Daniel had his accident so he couldn't work any longer."
"Did his wife leave him and then he had the accident, or was it the
other way round?"
"I don't properly remember. It seemed to happen around the same
time. Nora went to visit him when he was laid up. I think Jimmy might
even have encouraged her to. So did Jimmy know about his Nora and
Daniel? Daniel and Jimmy were good mates, and Daniel was always
dropping into the house. Jimmy would arrive home from work and as
he came in the back door, Nora would say, 'There's an extra one for
supper tonight, Jimmy,' and as Jimmy was taking off his boots at the
back door, he'd shout through, 'Oh, hi, Dan, how's it going?' It wasn't
that he was ever going to catch them in bed or anything."
Here Aunty Peggy broke into a fit of the giggles.
"Oh my goodness, can you just imagine those two in bed,
Inspector? Oh, forgive me, Jimmy, and God bless your children and
my sister. I'm not being disrespectful of you, honest I'm not."
She spent a few moments regaining her composure before continuing.
"I suppose it made it easier for him that Nora had some kind of
company. Everyone could see Daniel was just about the only one who
could pull her out of herself. What a mess, Inspector, what an absolute
mess. How will it all end?"
Starrett ignored her question and clicked his teeth a couple of times
before saying, "Aunty Peggy, tell me about Jimmy. What kind of a man
was he? How did you get on with him?"
"He was a very nice man, maybe too nice, if you really want to
know the truth. Jimmy would literally give you the shirt off his back.
He wouldn't let a bad word be said about anyone under his roof. Nora
didn't really know what she had. I think she figured that, after all she'd
been through, getting a decent man would be enough. But I told her
that you don't marry a man because he lets you walk on the inside of
the footpath. As a couple, they really just didn't compliment each other.
It was fine for Jimmy to be a hippie, but he really needed to be with a
stronger woman, you know, someone who was organised, maybe even
ambitious enough for both of them. And our Nora, well, she needed a
dominant man. She really needed another version of our father, that's
the truth of it, and it was like she knew she was never ever going to
meet as great a man as him, so she just gave up. Take my Dolphie, for
instance. He's his own man. He and my father treated each other as
equals, and that's the way it needed to be. Going back to Jimmy, he
and I always got on great, but then I didn't have to live with him. But,
Inspector, as a father, he really came into his own. He loved his children,
and he had the patience of a saint"
"Did you and he talk a lot?"
"You mean more than, 'How's work?' or, 'How's Uncle Dolphie?'
or, 'Can you believe this weather?'"
"Yeah."
"Erm, the thing about Jimmy was that he loved to investigate
things and think things through. Uncle Dolphie and I have travelled
the world quite a bit, so Jimmy was always intrigued to learn about our
travels, but we'd never tell each other our darkest secrets the way I'm
sure Nora and Daniel did. For instance, I'd never tell him that Uncle
Dolphie snores like a ship's foghorn, and he'd never tell me what
Mandy Morrison had on her bedside table."
"So, you knew about that?"
"Yes, Inspector, I knew about that."
"And what did you think about it?"
"What did I think about it? Well, Inspector, I'll tell you exactly
what I thought about it. I thought, 'Maybe Nora's not fulfilling her
bedroom duties, and if this woman is helping on that score, perhaps
Jimmy will get it out of his system before he settles into middle age, and
my sister and her family can grow old peacefully' I thought Mandy
would be off to someone else before long, and if poor Jimmy didn't end
up with a broken heart, it could have been the best thing all round.
But, as Uncle Dolphie always says, 'One way or another, we all end up
paying for our sins.'"
"Look, Aunty Peggy," Starrett said, the Aunty Peggy part still sticking
in his throat like a fishing hook, "thanks for that, I've got one more
thing I'd like to ask you. How well did you know Mrs Amanda
Morrison?"
"Oh, I'd say we're both part of the same social circle. I met her
through Betsy Bell. We're not best friends or anything like that, but we
do frequently bump into each other at various functions. I know her
husband Ivan much better."


Starrett didn't have time to fill Gibson in on the outline of his chat with
the very enlightening Aunty Peggy. Every detective deserves an Aunty
Peggy, he thought. Someone at the core of a family who's not scared of
having an opinion, and even less scared of voicing it. He wondered if
Aunty Peggy was really that straightforward, telling the story as she
knew it. Or could she be putting her own spin on facts, spurred on by
some unknown motive? Maybe she didn't want her sister to assume
saint-like status in everyone's eyes. Maybe she had some kind of score
to settle with Dan McGuinness and she knew exactly how deep she was
dropping him in the smelly stuff.
But Starrett was leaning more towards the theory that Aunty Peggy
considered herself the family matriarch and was as keen as he was to
have this crime solved and the sordid events of the last few days put
behind them all, as soon as possible.
Starrett suggested that he and Nora adjourn to James's workshop
to have a chat. Chris Moore--who was within earshot--offered to
accompany his mother. She very gently stroked the side of his face with
her full hand and said that she would be OK and that she needed him
in the house to look after the non-stop flow of visitors.
"Chris told me you were very kind to him on the beach the morning
you came to see us," Nora said as they entered the workshop.
Today the workshop looked darker than it had on Starrett's last
visit, which was peculiar, because it was a much brighter day. The
pulpit still stood on its side; it probably couldn't be upended until it
was taken out of the workshop.
"Chris is a good lad, a credit to you and your husband. He'll be
OK, believe me."
"I do hope so," Nora replied. "He's the man of the house now."
"Do you know who James was making this pulpit for?"
"I've no idea," she said, walking over to it and tracing her fingers
along the intricate carving of the front ridge. "I seldom knew what
Jimmy was up to. It was very weird just now. I was totally distracted when
you said, 'James'. No one called him James; it was always Jimmy. He even
called himself Jimmy. I remember the first time I met him. He'd gatecrashed
a party, my sister's party in fact, and I'd just gone through a troubled
teenage romance and was off boys. He was so laidback it was
comforting. Not only was he not the kind of boy who'd chat up girls, but
if I'd tried to chat him up, he would have run a mile. His mate introduced
him grandly as 'James', and Jimmy said something about how we were
in Coleraine and not Stormont Castle. At least it was a change from my
last boyfriend, who would have demanded that he be introduced as
Master James. So, in a way, it was not as much who he was as who he
wasn't that attracted me to him, which, as Aunty Peggy kept pointing out
to me, is not really a very good reason to be attracted to someone."
"Ah," Starrett said with a grunt. "Hindsight's only for backward
people."
"Well, I know what you mean, but Daniel is always saying that we
need to learn from our mistakes."
If Aunty Peggy's information is correct, I'll bet he does, Starrett
thought but out loud he said, "Yes, Aunty Peggy was telling me that he's
a very good friend of yours."
Nora Moore looked at Starrett with her head turned slightly at an
angle. She tightened her mouth so that her lips disappeared into her
jaw. It was not a particularly pretty sight, especially on a woman like
Nora, who wasn't very feminine-looking to start with. She reminded
Starrett of a farmer's wife who had been unconcerned about her looks
for so long that her beauty, her poise and all of her feminine qualities
had now permanently left her. Nora walked like she was in bare feet on

cobblestones. On their walk down the garden, her movement had fascinated
Starrett, but gradually he had started to feel uncomfortable on
her behalf. Her hair was stringy, lank and lifeless. She was make-up free,
and the skin on her hands was clean, but patchy and red, giving the
impression of someone who had scrubbed herself clean. Her eyes were
not bloodshot, but incredibly white and clear. Starrett knew that nothing
could really be read into this, because in all the grief he'd been party
to, he had yet to see two people react in the same way.
Her single concession to the devastating situation she had found
herself in was a shapeless, knee-length, black dress and an unbuttoned
black cardigan. It wasn't exactly new: the third button from the bottom
was missing.
"Yes, my sister is not the most discreet of people, is she?" Nora said.
"Look, Inspector, Daniel and I have been friends on and off for years,
and I will admit that we've become friends again over the last couple of
years, but that's all either of us needs or wants, and neither of us feels
it's a second-best type of relationship, because it's not. It's the kind of
relationship that any person can have at the same time as being married.
Jimmy worked all the hours God sent, and I know he was happy
as Larry Cunningham out here working away, thinking great thoughts,
but I'm in there working away, and it drives me crazy if I haven't got
someone to talk to. Daniel's the same, so I suppose that's why we drifted
back towards each other."
"Was Jimmy aware of this friendship?"
"Ach, sure Daniel was a great friend to Jimmy as well."
"Nora, in my investigation, I've discovered that Jimmy had another
good friend ..."
"Oh, that sounds ominous."
"Well . . ."

"You can be totally frank with me, Inspector."
"It appears that he was having a relationship with a married
woman."

"Who?" she demanded in an unemotional voice.

"Mrs Amanda Morrison."
"I've never heard of her. She's not from around here, is she?" Nora
said. She wasn't acting the wronged woman; she was calm, perfectly
calm, with no edge to her at all.
"Not originally, no. Mrs Morrison moved to Ramelton a few years
ago, when she married the first minister."
"You mean the minister of the church Jimmy was found in?"
"Yes."
"You, you . . ." she said, shaking her head vigorously. "You don't
mean to tell me that Jimmy was murdered in the church of a man
whose wife he was having an affair with?"
Starrett, replied, "Yes, well, we're not sure that he was actually murdered
there, but ..."
"So are that woman and her husband in jail, then?"
"No, we're not holding anyone at this point."
"What?" she said. "Jealous husband, wronged lover . . . isn't that
enough? There's absolutely no one else who would have had any reason
to take Jimmy's life."
"Well, Nora, we don't know that for sure, do we?"
"I was married to him for fourteen years. I can tell you that for
sure. Surely our marriage should be worth something?"
"The thing is, a person doesn't necessarily do something that provides
grounds for murder."
"You really don't think it was them, do you?"
"The truth is, I don't know."
"So it could have been them?"
"It could have been them, but by the same token, it could have
been anyone."
"OK, I get it. You mean anyone like Daniel, for instance?"
"Again, Nora, I just don't know."
Then she mumbled something like, "Men, you're all the same;
you're never there when you're needed."
"Sorry?" Starrett said.
"Nothing," Nora said in a draught of frustration. "Look, for my
children's sake I really need you to make sure the person responsible is
caught. It will be hard for my children to face what's already going to
be a very hard life, if some rich folks get away with this, just because
they're rich and we're poor. Do you know what I mean?"
Starrett didn't know if she was philosophising, or asking a downto-earth,
everyday question.
"The thing that is important here," he said, conscious of lecturing
a grieving widow, "is that you've got to be there for your children. It's
your strength that will get them through this."
"I know, I know," she sighed. "It's just that I keep waiting for my
turn to be happy, and it just never seems to arrive. If anything, it always
seems to drift further and further away from me."

Chapter Thirty-Two





THOMAS Black, the caretaker and "faithful servant" of First
Minister Ivan Morrison, lived at the bottom of Mortimer's
Lane, across the road from the Manse's expansive gardens, in
a wee cottage. Although he'd been up and out since six o'clock, Garvey
and Casey had come calling when he'd nipped back to his cottage for
the first of his numerous daily cups of tea.
Thomas' cottage was pokey and clean, and his furniture was old
and functional but certainly not decorative. He did make a cracking
cup of tea, though, and it nearly blew Packie's eyebrows off.
The two gardai spend the first five minutes of their visit talking to
Black across the kitchen table as he prepared the tea. The table and
three wooden chairs were handy enough, Garvey thought. The plain,
dark-green wallpaper, which had started to peel in a couple of places,
looked like top of the range and might have originally been intended
for somewhere as grand as the Manse. The black stove, which had been
in the cottage since it was built in the late 1800s, looked old enough to
have undertaken a similar stint of duty in another cottage before that.
The shiny brass mantelpiece was packed to overflowing with letters,
cards and bric-a-brac. This included three tin canisters containing (so
t transpired) loose-leaf tea, sugar and biscuits; three ancient photographs,
including one of JFK; a battered silver transistor radio; and a
Whoriskey's fold-over calendar frozen at May 2001--presumably Black
'iked the photograph of the month, the beach beneath Smuggler's Creek over at Rossnowlagh. Three coat hooks behind the door supported what
looked like half a lifetime's worth of coats, jackets, cardigans and flat
cloth caps. Finally, on a wee wooden stool close to the stove, sat a pair
of slippers and a copy of the Donegal News.
"How long have you lived here, Thomas?" Packie asked.
Black sucked in about a bushel of air as he considered this question.
"Aye, last September, I'd say it was thirty years since."
"That is a long time," Packie replied. "Well, you've got it nice and
cosy."
"It suits me right."
"But, erm," Francis said, "that's longer than the Second Federation
Church and First Minister Morrison have been here."
"Oh aye, and I've seen a few before that," Black replied.
"But I thought Morrison was the first minister?"
"Inaugural," Black offered. "He's always saying that he's the inaugural
first minister of the Second Federation Church. Now, is that a
mouthful or what?" Black broke into a wide grin which betrayed a
mouthful of imperfect, tobacco-stained teeth.
He was a small man, wiry-framed, but he looked strong, very
strong. Packie would have pegged him as sixty to sixty-five years old.
He had a full head of hair, which was so black that Garvey was tempted
to ask if Black was really his family name or a school nickname. His
unkempt hair popped out in unsymmetrical tufts and curls from under
a checked flat cloth cap, which seemed to be glued to his head. He wore
a pair of blue dungarees over a black shirt, with scuffed black work
shoes.
"Don't you see?" he continued. "The Manse across the road was
originally built as the manse for the church beside it, which was a
Presbyterian church. There were originally two Presbyterian churches
in the town, and when they amalgamated, they sold off the Manse, the
Second Federation Church bought it, and here they are."
"So, you're not a member of the Second Federation Church then?"
"I don't have time for any religion; I'm too busy working for First
Minister Morrison. He likes what he likes, and he likes it when he
likes it, and if you see to that, he treats you fine. Aye, after all these
years, I'm happy enough working there and living here for free. I
know my place. I'll just keep my mouth shut, and with a bit of luck
I'll be here long after he's gone. Ach no, lads, besides which I do all
my worshipping down in Conway's Pub. They do a grand pint of
Guinness in there."
"That was a sorry state of affairs at your church on Friday morning
last."
"Whoa, tell me about it," Black said, shaking his head.
"You're too far away down here to have seen or heard anything
going on up there on Thursday night, I suppose?" Casey asked.
"Oh, aye, sure there's rarely a car goes by here. I'm surprised nothing
was heard up on the hill though. I mean, your man must have been
hollering louder than a hyena with all that torturing going on. And
you'd also think there would have been a bit of noise going on as he was
brought into the building."
"You haven't picked up any information from any of your mates
over the weekend?" Packie asked.
"Not a sausage," Black replied. "Must be a local, though."
"Really?" Packie said, his head jolting back in surprise. "Why do
you say that, Thomas?"
"Well, it must have been someone who knew their way around the
church, someone who knew they weren't going to be disturbed. If you
were a stranger, you'd never risk being trapped inside a church doing
your evil deed, now, would you? You'd need to feel somewhat comfortable
in your surroundings, wouldn't you?"
Casey was about to respond when Packie shot him a glare.
"Interesting, Thomas," Packie said, encouragingly. "Has anyone
around town been behaving suspiciously or anything?"
"Not that I've seen on my travels, no," Thomas said, firmly closing
that particular door.
Thomas Black, like the majority of the local residents the gardai
had interviewed following the discovery of Jimmy Moore's body, was
happy to speculate in general, but reluctant either to name names or to
point a finger.
"What about James Moore, Thomas?" Francis asked. "How well
did you know him?"
"He did a lot of work for First Minister Morrison and his wife in
the Manse's library."
Yes, we know that," Francis replied.
"I'd see him about back then quite a bit. I'd never met him before
that, although I believe he was a friend of Colm Donovan who also did
a bit of work around the Manse from time to time. James Moore was
a quiet man, kept himself to himself, was extremely neat and tidy. I'll
tell you, I've seen some carpenters in my life, but never any who had
the gifted hands that man had. His work was just Al. Everything he
touched turned out absolutely Al."
"Did you see him and Mrs Morrison together much?" Packie
asked.
Thomas Black looked from Garda Garvey to Garda Casey, trying
hard to read the situation.
"Well, Mrs Morrison was obviously around the Manse . . ."
"Thomas, it's only fair that we should tell you . . . First Minister
Morrison told Inspector Starrett that you had notified him that Mrs
Morrison and Mr Moore were having an affair."
"Well," Thomas said, "I suppose if you couldn't find out about
that, there was little or no hope you'd ever solve any crime at all."
"So," Garvey continued, drawing the word out, "how did you
know they were having an affair?"
"I will admit that she was more discreet than usual, but ach, sure,
it's none of my business, really. Look, I don't want to be quoted on this,
but Mrs Morrison is a fine woman, always very nice to me. She treats
me well, makes sure I'm invited to Sunday lunch every now and again.
They always have someone for Sunday lunch; it's their big social meal
of their week. But I speak as I find. You'd have to say that she was liberal
with her favours, and the first minister was down in Belfast a lot,
and my house is only just across the road from the Manse. I couldn't
help seeing who was coming and going. Listen, lads, she's still a young
woman, she's a beautiful woman, and as I say, what I saw was really
none of my business."
"Thomas," Packie said, his Galway accent sweet and gentle, "what
you tell us is not gossip; it's valuable information. Of course, we'd never
jeopardise your job, but we really do need to know who else Amanda
Morrison had been seeing."
"Look, lads, you don't need me to tell you that; you'll pick that up
easily enough. But what I can tell you is that this time it was serious.
The thing with Jimmy Moore wasn't a quick roll in the hay. No, I'd say
they both knew that this was the real thing."
"What makes you say that?" Garvey asked, intrigued that Black
would be so perceptive.
"It was very easy to see that they cared about each other and
about the people around them. With an affair, people are just taking
advantage of each other, which is why affairs usually burn out without
developing into anything."
"Jeez, Thomas, that's very profound," Garvey said, without
thinking.
"And beyond me?" the caretaker replied.
"No, Thomas, sorry. Look, please . . ."
"It's no bother, Packie," Thomas said graciously. "Yes, I've never
married and I'll tell you why I never married. You see, my mother and
father, God rest their souls, met when my mam was sixteen and my
father was seventeen. They got hitched on my mam's twenty-first birthday
and were happily married and loved each other each and every day
of their lives. My dad died first, when he was eighty-three, and my
mother died the night after she buried him. When I was growing up
and out courting, I'd always ask myself if the girl I was with and I could
ever enjoy even a fraction of the love my mam and dad enjoyed. Sadly,
the answer was always 'no', and that's why I never bothered. Ach, sure,
it wasn't a great loss to anyone, I know, but I suppose I did it out of
respect for my parents."
"That's a great story, Thomas, that really is."
"Aye, I know it is." Thomas Black sighed. "And you know what? I
thought I saw something similar in the love Mrs Morrison and Mr
Moore had for each other."
"Early on Friday morning, you told First Minister Morrison that
you believed his wife and Mr Moore where having a relationship,"
Garvey said.
"Yes, I told him that. I believe he needed to know."
"Do you think there was any chance First Minister Morrison
already knew about the relationship?"
"I couldn't say for sure if he did or if he didn't," Thomas Black
replied, "but he reacted the same way he did when I told him that the
roof of the garden shed needed repairing. He just said, 'OK, Thomas,
thanks for that, I'll deal with it.'"
Casey and Garvey left Black on his high doorstep and walked slowly
back up Mortimer's Lane. When they levelled with the gateway of the
Manse, Garvey broke off and walked through it. Then he turned and
looked back down towards Black's cottage. He studied the location of
both buildings from every angle, and, try though he might, he could
see no way in which Black would have been able to see the comings
and goings at the Manse from inside his cottage, or even from his front
doorstep.
' So,' Garvey said to his colleague as they resumed their journey up
the last few yards of Mortimer's Lane, "it would seem that Thomas
Black would have had to go out of his way to see who was or wasn't visiting
Mrs Morrison when her husband was out of town."
"You mean he would have had to have been spying on her?" Garda
Casey asked, as the two of them took a right into Church Street.
"Yes, that's exactly what I mean," Garda Garvey confirmed.

Chapter Thirty-Three



AS STARRETT AND Nuala drove into Daniel McGuinness' yard,
an enormous Irish wolfhound ran straight across the front of
their bow, and Starrett had to slam on the brakes, unceremoniously
bringing them to a sharp halt. Fortune had once again sided
with the inspector, because around the bend was a three-year-old boy,
sitting in the middle of the driveway, playing with a dog's bone and a
Fairy Liquid container. Every time the little boy beat the container with
the bone, a few more green bubbles would float out of it, and he was
giggling himself pink.
"O Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" Nuala said, seeing how close their car
was to the child.
"The devil's children enjoy the devil's luck," Starrett said, as much
to himself as to her.
"Oh, he's a wee dote, isn't he?" she said, rushing out of the car to
pick him up.
They knocked on the door and were admitted by another of the
big man's extensive brood.
"You left Nora's before we had a chance to chat," Starrett said by
way of introduction.
There he was, perched on his throne, hands resting on his walking
stick.
"Oh, you know, Starrett, you pay your respects and then you have to
leave them to it," he grunted, looking at Nuala with the child in her arms.
You look good like that; you should get your man to give you one."
Nuala blushed and handed the baby to his mother, who appeared
to be Dan's hired help. A quick nod of the head to the left, from
McGuinness, was all it took for the girl and baby to get out of there in
a flash, leaving the trio in privacy.
"Nora was telling me that thee and she are great friends," Starrett
said, and despite having no invitation to sit, found a chair for Gibson
and then one for himself.
"Well, Nora and myself go way back, and I have to admit that she
was particularly supportive in my own time of crisis."
"Yes, I heard about the accident, Dan," Starrett said. "It was a bad
fall, wasn't it?"
"The doctors thought so, aye."
"But no doubt broken by that soft mattress of euros, eh?" Starrett
added, smiling. "What was it they said you were awarded? Three quarters
of a million?"
"Jeez, man! Keep your voice down for heaven's sake or I'll have relatives
I never knew existed turning up on the doorstep," Dan said with
a hiss. "It wasn't anything near that."
"Ah well, sorry about that," Starrett said. "But you were telling us
about Nora?"
"Yes, she's a good friend. We can talk, I mean really talk, and as
Jimmy was also a good mate of mine, there was never any chance of
anyone misreading the situation vis-a-vis any jiggy-pokery carry-on."
"I believe you told my colleagues that you knew Jimmy was seeing
Amanda Morrison," Starrett said, matter-of-factly.
"Yes, indeed I did."
"But you never told Nora about it?" Starrett said, speeding up
slightly from his usual drawl.
"Nope."
"You're sure about that?"
"Positive."
"You see, from where I'm sitting, Dan, I have to admit that I'm
having a problem with that."
"Oh, and why's that?"
"Well, I just remember a great chatting-up technique from my
school days, which was doing the dirty on the current boyfriend by
telling the object of your affections who else the boyfriend had
expressed an interest in."
"Aye, and now you're running the gardai? That says something,
Starrett; that says something."
"Now from what I can make out, you probably had a hard time
getting over everything that happened with Nora when you were
young. Then, many years pass, and one of your best friends also happens
to be married to your childhood sweetheart, your wife leaves you,
you discover your childhood sweetheart's husband is involved with
another woman. So would you drop your best mate in it? It's a simple
question. Surely there's no need to phone a friend?"
"Well, Starrett, erm, all I can tell you is all I know, and all I know
is that I didn't tell Nora about the relationship. Don't you see, I'd no
need to. There was nothing I felt was missing in my relationship
with her."
"Have the two of you discussed Jimmy's relationship with Amanda
since his death?"
"When I went to pay my respects on Friday, she was in a bad way.
She accused me of knowing, I said I had, and she said, 'Thank you for
not telling me.' And that's as much as we've discussed it."
"Do Betsy Bell and Aunty Peggy Cowan know each other?" Starrett
asked.
"Yes, I believe so."
"So, at some point, Betsy might have told Peggy about Amanda
and Jimmy."
Dan lifted his right hand from the cane and wobbled it open-palm
in an "I think we're talking 50/50 chance here" gesture.
"So, in short, Nora's best friend knew that her husband was cheating
on her. Nora's sister knew that her husband was cheating on her,
and you're expecting me to believe that neither of them would have
thought enough of her to tell her what was going on?"
Dan merely shrugged his shoulders, which resulted in a tidal wave
of ripples across his body.
"OK, Dan, have you any idea how Aunty Peggy and Amanda knew
each other?"
"Maybe university, but that's a guess."
"And finally, Dan, since my colleagues originally questioned you,
have you thought of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Jimmy?"
"I've thought of little else," Dan the Man wheezed, "and I keep
coming back to First Minister Morrison. I think the more you investigate
Jimmy's past, the more you'll discover that he was a good man, a
great father and, apart from his affair with Amanda Morrison, he really
did keep his nose clean. I can't for the life of me think of anyone else he
might have wronged.

Chapter Thirty-Four





ONCE THEY'D LEFT the big man's house, Starrett turned to
Gibson and said, "Look, let's run straight on out the
Letterkenny road and pay another visit to Colm Donovan.
Hopefully he'll know the name of the gaffer on the Fast Trout job up
in Creestown."
"You're on," she replied. "And just in case you hadn't noticed, I
think I should point out that you're the one driving the car."
"So I am, so I am," Starrett said, thinking that Gibson was fun to
be with. "What did you make of that little moment we shared with
Dan McGuinness?"
"I suppose it all depends on whether you feel he's lying or not
about the extent of his relationship with Nora. I mean, Pitt and Jolie,
they are not ..."
"Sorry, who?"
"OK, let's see, yep, they're not exactly Romeo and Juliet."
Good, OK, I'm with you now."
I don't know, but they say that for some people, the cheating itself
is an added attraction."
"If not the only one," Starrett said. "And no matter what anyone
says, the Donegal nights are cold and wet and long, and necessity is
the mother of invention. Still, the notion of Dan the Man on top of
Nora . . ."
"I'm having great difficulty imagining it too," Gibson said. "By
the way, the last time Packie and I interviewed Colm Donovan, he and

the sergeant mentioned something about the House of Love. They said
it was somewhere on the Milford to Kerrykeel road."
"Yes, I know it well," Starrett replied.
"What is it?"
"Ach, sure, there was this couple, very much in love. The lad was
very ambitious, and he wanted them to have a grand house in time for
their wedding. He got a beautiful plot of land with a great view of the
water, and he spent every minute God sent him working on their
dream house. If he wasn't working on the house, he was working on the
two other jobs he was holding down in order to pay for the materials
for their grand house. In the meantime ..."
"He was totally ignoring his girlfriend?"
"You've got it."
"And so she started cheating on him?"
"Sadly, you're spot on again," Starrett said as they passed the Silver
Tassie Hotel.
"And?"
"Do you want fact or legend?"
"Oh, both, please."
"Well, the locals said he did away with her. Drowned her in the
water their grand house overlooked. They also say he was very clever
because he ensured that her body could never be found, and as there
were no witnesses to the actual murder, he got away with it scotfree."

"And the facts were?" Nuala asked.
"She moved to England with her new boyfriend. There was a problem
with some missing money, and we tracked her down to Stockport,
where they were both holed up in a single-room bedsit without a view.
The boy stopped work on his "dream house", and the unfinished shell
stands as a testament to their lost love. He lives nearby with his parents
and has dropped out of life."
"A bit of a Syd Barrett?" Nuala asked.
"Sorry?"
"Oops, please forgive me. He was the original guitarist in Pink
Floyd, but I thought I might have been on safe ground because they
predated Neil Diamond by three or four years."
"Tell me this, Nuala Gibson," Starrett enquired, as they pulled into
the tidy yard of Colm Donovan's bungalow. "How do you know all of
this music stuff?"
"Oh, that's easy. My father's a big music fan."
Starrett was considering an answer when a large, white husky-type
dog attacked their car. Ignoring the almighty racket and the saliva
drooling down from the dog's ever-widening jaws, Starrett confidently
opened the car door and stepped out. The dog ran up to him, barking
furiously and loudly. Starrett, using three straight fingers, one bent
finger and one thumb, reached out to the dog and started to tickle it
behind the ears. The dog stopped barking and started whimpering in
delight, playing like a puppy with the detective.
"Fine guard dog you've turned out to be, Digger," Donovan said,
emerging from the house. Then to Starrett: "I've never seen him do that
before."
Donovan looked into Starrett's car and recognised Gibson. Starrett
walked up to him and introduced himself. Donovan looked slightly
taken aback.
"We've come to trouble you again about Jimmy Moore," Starrett
said, as Gibson got out of the car, all the time with her eyes glued to
Digger.
"Aye, you're lucky, you just caught me in," Donovan volunteered.
"I just nipped back to pick up some more scaffolding frames."
"Sorry, Colm, it's just a quickie really. Jimmy worked on a job at
the Fast Trout. . ."
"Aye, I know it, up in Creestown."
"And I was wondering if you would know the name of the gaffer
he worked for up there."
"It was a Bonner Construction job, wasn't it? It was tor . . . well, it
burnt down overnight."
"Yeah, that's the one," Gibson said.
"Aye, that would have been . . . now, let me see," Donovan said,
removing a packet of Camels from his T-shirt sleeve and offering
Starrett and Gibson a ciggy before lighting up solo. "Pat Duffy was the
ramrod on that job."
Do you know him?" Starrett asked.
"Not really, no, but I know of 'him. I run around with a crowd he
used to run around with."
"He knew Jimmy?" Starrett asked.
"Indeed he did," Donovan confirmed. "He would have been a big
supporter of Jimmy's."
"Would you know how I could contact him?"
"He and the family moved back to Sligo a few months back. Pat's
mother-in-law took bad, and his missus wanted to be nearby."
"Are you sure he moved to Sligo and not to Cork?"
"No, no, Pat's definitely a Sligo man, and that's where he went.
Why would you have thought that?" Donovan asked, appearing
surprised.
"I think it was Owen Bonner who told us his gaffer went to Cork."
Donovan clicked his teeth.
"Would Jimmy have known Bonner?" Starrett asked.
Donovan thought for a few moments before he replied, "I don't
know, to be honest. I think he would have known what he looked like."
"From the newspapers?' Gibson asked.
"No, I think Jimmy told me that he'd spotted Bonner and some of
his cronies at the Fast Trout. They'd made him a bit nervous, and that's
why he left without his tools."
"Right then," Starrett said. "You wouldn't have a number, would
you?
"Nah, but I could get you one."
Donovan promised to ring in Duffy's number to Tower House.
Sitting in the BMW, Starrett studied the scene in his rear-view mirror
as the youthful Colm Donovan climbed into his souped-up VW Golf,
screeched out of the courtyard and zoomed off into the distance without
any of the scaffolding frames he had claimed he had come back to
pick up.

Chapter Thirty-Five



THE MORNING HAD been one of the most brilliant June mornings
a garda inspector could ever have wished for, but just as
Starrett and Gibson reached the noisy manhole covers on the
Ramelton-Rathmullan road, the heavens opened up as if God had
turned all of His taps on full. There was thunder and lightning, rainbow
on top of rainbow, raindrops as big as elephant's teardrops, and
there were hailstones as large as golf balls. It got to a point where they
could barely see six feet in front of the bonnet of their car.
The unmarked garda car Starrett had ordered to be parked in the
lay-by opposite Betsy Bell's house was still there. This was a near-perfect
surveillance spot: not only was it perfectly positioned to view the front
entrance of Mrs Bell's house, but because it was also a natural place for
sightseers and courting couples in cars to stop, a parked car attracted little
attention from drivers passing by.
Betsy came out her front door almost the moment they pulled into
her driveway, pulling on fashionable, multi-coloured, head-to-toe
waterproofs. Obviously she had already been on her way out.
"I need to get out for a breath of fresh air," she said, opening the
car door for Starrett. "I was just building up to an attack of room
fatigue."
"How's Amanda?"
"She not the best just now, Starrett. She seemed to brighten up a
little after your last visit. Then I heard her on her mobile, and now she's
withdrawn into herself again, and I'm quite worried."
Starrett remained seated in the car. He had no intention of getting
drenched.
"Hop in the back there and we'll take you for a wee spin," he suggested.
"Okey-dokey,
you're on," she said, but then added, "What about
Amanda?"
"I can go and sit with her, if you like," Gibson offered.

"That would be nice. She's sleeping at the moment," Betsy said,
closing Starrett's door and running around to open the passenger side
for Gibson.
As she was circling their car, Starrett said to Gibson, "We may be
here for a while. Get hold of Casey and tell him what we learned from
Donovan about the Fast Trout gaffer. He can start the wheels turning
on that score."
"Right."
Just then, Betsy Bell opened her door, and they exchanged places.
Gibson scampered across the yard, with Betsy shouting, "Toodaloo!"
after her. She then turned to Starrett and said, "You don't know how
big a treat it is to get out of the house, even though it is bucketing
down."
They both sat watching Gibson swerve from side to side as nimbly
as George Best at his peak, deftly picking her way through the puddles.
They drove to Rathmullan, the noise of the rain lashing against
the outside of the car, drowning out the sound of the engine.
Rathmullan, like all seaside towns, needs sun to show off its full
charm. Needs sun to draw the people on to the streets and, more
importantly, needs sun and the accompanying blue skies to bring out
its picture-postcard perfection.
Eventually Betsy said, "There's a nice little coffee shop up here, second
on the left just before the old church ruins. It's run by Sandra, a
fun lady from Dublin. She does a lifesaving cappuccino and even better
crepes."
"Seems just what the doctor would have ordered for himself on this
miserable day," Starrett said, taking the directed left and pulling up in
front of the tastefully refurbished old Methodist Hall.
The rain had fairly packed Sandra's, but Starrett and Betsy Bell
managed to squeeze into a small table in a quiet corner.
"Betsy, can you remember who else you might have told about
Amanda and Jimmy?" Starrett asked, as soon as they were seated,
"I suppose we didn't really come out to discuss the weather," Betsy
offered with a strained smile. "But would you mind if we get our order
in first?"
Starrett remained silent for a while after the waitress disappeared.
"I would have been very careful," Betsy said, without further
prompting.
"Did you tell Nora Moore's sister?"
"Aunty Peggy?" Betsy asked and Starrett nodded. "You say that as
though you know for a fact I did."
Starrett did not reply.
A few more moments of silence followed, during which they could
hear scattered fragments of other people's conversations.
"Yes, Starrett, I did tell Aunty Peggy," Betsy Bell said eventually.
"Right, I figured," Starrett admitted.
"But listen to me, Starrett, I know Aunty Peggy well enough that
I could make her promise never to tell Nora, and I knew it was a promise
she would keep."
"You're absolutely sure about that?"
"I'm a hundred per cent convinced," Betsy Bell replied confidently.
"And the reason I told her was that I wanted someone on Nora's side to
know. It was starting to look like Mandy and Jimmy were going to try
and make a go of it together. I know Mandy is my best friend and all
that, but equally I was worried. Ivan is capable of looking after himself.
In fact, he probably wouldn't notice the difference, provided he could
find another bright young thing to hang from his arm at his precious
functions. Nora, on the other hand, was extremely fragile at the best of
times, according to Peggy. So I figured that Peggy should be ready to
help pick up the pieces."
From the distance came the rattle of more thunder. The general
coffee house chit-chat fell to silence for a few seconds before, conversation
by conversation, it slowly regained its previous momentum.
"How did Peggy react?" Starrett asked, when the chatter was loud
enough to afford them privacy.
Betsy paused as the waitress delivered their drinks and crepes. Once
she'd gone, Betsy stuck her finger through the froth and chocolate on
the top of the cappuccino and licked it off. "I'm sorry about that. I can
never resist. Sorry, where was I?"
Starrett broke into a wide grin. He wiped his right hand up over
his forehead, over his head and down to the back of his neck, before
saying, "You were about to tell me how Peggy reacted."
"I thought she wasn't surprised," Betsy replied, a fork full of crepe,
banana and maple syrup hovering close to her mouth. "She said that if
you didn't love your husband, it's never enough just to stay with him."
"Is there any chance Peggy might have told anyone?"
"I made her swear on her husband's life that that she wouldn't even
tell Uncle Dolphie."
"And you didn't tell anyone else?"
"No," Betsy replied firmly, before the first mouthful of crepe disappeared.
"Oh my goodness," she purred, "This is absolutely divine.
Who needs men when you can have Sandra's crepes?"
Starrett smiled as he asked, "OK, do you know anyone else who
knew about James and Amanda?"
"Colm Donovan knew. Jimmy told him."
"I didn't know you knew Colm."
"Yes, he knew my late husband, Billy. Colm was always around
doing some manner of work or other on the house. When Billy died,
God bless his soul, I kept using Colm; he knew how everything
worked. It was Colm, in fact, who first suggested that I use Jimmy to
do my kitchen."
"Right," Starrett said, "and did Colm Donovan have any observation
or comment to make to you about the relationship?"
"I think he was very concerned about how it was all going to end.
He said Amanda was well capable of looking after herself, but he felt
Jimmy was new to it all, and that he was most probably in way over his
head."
"Tell me this, Betsy, did Amanda Morrison tell you anything else
about Jimmy? Anything at all?"
"No," Betsy said in a whisper, appearing very distracted.
"Are you worried about Amanda?"
"Yes, I am. Starrett, you got to see her for yourself. She's definitely
gone downhill and she's rambling a lot. Last night she was saying that
Jimmy was crucified as a punishment from God."
"Is she sleeping much?"
"Most of the time she does nothing but sleep. In fact, I think if she
doesn't snap out of it soon, we might need to consider getting her professional
help," Betsy said, preparing for her final mouthful of crepe.
"If she's really that bad, we should maybe get back there immediately
and assess whether or not we do need to get someone in to see
her," Starrett said, as he too finished his crepe.
Seven minutes later, during which time the rain stopped, they were
in Betsy Bell's home, with Nuala Gibson reporting that she'd not heard
a single sound from upstairs.
Betsy went upstairs to check on Amanda.
Starrett and Gibson could hear her gentle footsteps padding across
the carpet upstairs. Suddenly the same feet were running to what
appeared to be the landing, and they heard Betsy calling, "Mandy!
Mandy!" repeatedly with rising panic.
Betsy ran downstairs shouting, "She's not there! She's not there!"
They searched every room in the house, followed by the outhouses,
but they couldn't find Amanda Morrison anywhere.
Amanda Morrison and the rain had disappeared together.


Starrett looked at his watch; it was 13.48.
"When was the last time you saw her?" Starrett asked Betsy as he
made her a strong cup of tea.
"It would have been just after nine o'clock this morning. We had
breakfast together. She was very depressed that she couldn't go out for
a walk in the garden because of the heavy rain, so she went back to
bed."
Gibson had checked with the gardai in the unmarked car.
According to them both, the only comings and goings so far that day
had been Starrett and Gibson arriving, Starrett and Betsy Bell 
departing and Starrett and Betsy Bell returning. No one else had entered the
driveway.
"That's all we need," Starrett said, as much to himself as to Gibson
and Bell. "Maybe someone found out she was here. Did she ever answer
the phone?"
"As I mentioned, she took one call on her mobile, but apart from
that she was terrified of the sound of it ringing, which was unusual for
her, because she used to live on the phone. I got the feeling she was terrified
picking it up in case Ivan was on the other end."
"And you didn't tell anyone she was staying here, Betsy?"
"No, I promise you, I didn't, Starrett."
"Had she been out for a walk since she came to stay here?"

"Mandy wasn't a great walker. A wee dander around the garden
every now and then to clear her head, but that was it."
"Then we can rule out that she's just gone for a stroll. I have to
consider the possibility that she didn't leave of her own free will.
Someone may have taken her."
"But surely either myself or Garda Gibson would have heard something,
some kind of disturbance or other?"
"Not necessarily, no," Starrett replied. "Firstly, she might have gone
voluntarily; and, secondly, that auld thunderstorm we've just been
through has been creating quite a bit of a racket all morning long."
Starrett and Gibson returned to Tower House in Ramelton, leaving
the two gardai from the unmarked car with Betsy Bell, who was
still hoping that Amanda would return to the sanctuary and safety of
her cosy home.

Chapter Thirty-Six



THE MOMENT STARRETT returned to Tower House, he put out
an all-ports bulletin on Amanda Morrison and made the telephone
call he'd been dreading ever since Maggie Keane's visit.
"Could I speak with Dr Aljoe, please?" he said into the mouthpiece,
once he had been connected.
"She's over in Donegal Town at the minute, Inspector," a female
voice announced. "A body was found first thing this morning in a hotel
room. Suspicious circumstances, you know."
Which was emergency-services-speak for someone had suffered
what appeared to be a non-accidental death. Starrett hadn't heard of
any such incident, but then he had been out on the Moore case all
morning.
"Right so," he said, surprised he wasn't relieved at not having to
address the imminent issue with the doctor. "Could you please have
her ring me as soon as possible?"
"Of course I will, Inspector," the voice replied.
Starrett thought he heard a tad too much familiarity on the other
end of the line, as if he were speaking to someone who was aware of
recent developments between the doctor and the inspector.
The remainder of the afternoon passed quietly for Starrett. Garda
Francis Casey was the only member of the squad to make a discovery
of any significance on the James Moore case. He tracked down Pat
Duffy in Sligo. From Duffy, Casey discovered that it looked as if Owen
Bonner had been telling the truth. Moore's toolbox had indeed been
accidentally removed by the men taking away pieces of the dismantled
bar. Pat Duffy himself had returned the toolbox to his mate, Moore. He
said he might have joked to Moore when he first arrived with the tools
that they'd all been destroyed in the fire, and that was probably where
the confusion over the facts had arisen. Duffy further advised Casey
that both he and the fire brigade had agreed that the fire had been accidental,
most likely caused by a cigarette butt not being stubbed out
properly.
Starrett raised his eyebrows at this piece of information.
Casey had checked with the fire brigade, and their records corroborated
Duffy's account. He apologised to Starrett for uncovering such
bad news.
"Bejeepers," Starrett said immediately. "We can remove the name
Owen Bonner from our list of suspects. I wasn't comfortable with it. I
thought it was probably unlikely he'd torch that particular pub; it was
his dad's, and I'm sure that if he had been going to torch it he wouldn't
have been seen on the premises the night before it went up."
"Could Moore have witnessed something, though, that put his life
in danger?"
"I doubt Bonner is in the frame in this one, Francis. We can concentrate
our energies and resources on the rest of the investigation."
Starrett then had a chat with the major, bringing him up to date
on the investigation. Major Newton Cunningham wasn't best pleased
about Amanda Morrison's disappearance.
The next time Starrett looked at his watch it was 20.50. The majority
of his team had gone home and he was just about to call it a day
when the telephone rang.
"Starrett," he answered.
His face went ashen as the colour drained from his cheeks. He
returned the handset to its cradle, his hand remaining glued to it as he
sat staring into the distance.
Starrett didn't know how long he'd been sitting there when Gibson
and Casey came into his office to wish him goodnight.
"What's happened?" Gibson exclaimed the moment she saw
Starrett's face.
"It's Amanda Morrison," Starrett replied in a whisper. "Her body's
just been found down on Rathmullan Pier.


Chapter Thirty-Seven

BY THE TIME Starrett and Garvey arrived at Rathmullan Pier, the
Scene of Crime Unit--including pathologist Dr Samantha
Aljoe--was already there.
An eerie scene confronted Starrett as he walked down the wooden
planks. The unfolding drama was floodlit, like a large bubble of white
light attached to the end of the pier. Slightly to the right, and creating
a grand silhouette, was a Killybegs fishing boat, the Father Anthony, bobbing up and down furiously in the water as the wind raged and
pulled at its every extremity. The torrential rain of earlier in the day had
been replaced by intermittent showers. Just now the rain was holding
off, though the powerful wind was threatening to pull Starrett's head
off of his shoulders. As he approached the end of the pier, he saw that
the beams of the arc lights were strong enough to draw up condensation
from the rain-soaked surface. Outside the bubble of light, it was
dark, very dark, especially coming off the back of the previous week's
full moon.
The walk to the end of the pier seemed to take Starrett for ever. He
spotted Dr Aljoe immediately because of her signature one-piece, semitransparent,
light blue plastic suit, while the remainder of the gardai
scene of crime officers were in standard-issue opaque white outfits. The
trousers and white blouse he could glimpse beneath her work suit
couldn't have been very efficient in keeping this terrible cold at bay, but
that didn't seem to be troubling the doctor, who was working away as
efficiently as ever.
As Starrett walked the final few yards along the narrowest part of the
pier, he wondered if there was anything more he could have done to protect
Amanda Morrison. He recalled thinking that he was being overly
protective by isolating her in the first place. How had someone managed
to steal her from right under their eyes? He thought it unlikely that
she would have chosen to make the journey herself, alone and on foot,
in torrential rain. So just who would have wanted to harm her?
Could it have been First Minister Ivan Morrison? Or maybe even
Daniel McGuinness, either by himself or with Nora Moore as an
accomplice? Or maybe some person, or persons, as yet unknown. What
information had Amanda Morrison taken to her death? Perhaps knowledge
that someone needed to keep hidden. If so, what could it have
been?
When he finally arrived at the crime scene, Dr Aljoe merely nodded
at Starrett to acknowledge his arrival. She was bent over the water-soaked
body of Amanda Morrison. As ever, Starrett had to look twice at the body
to convince himself that he was looking at the corpse of a person.
Her hair was matted with water and seaweed. Her unsymmetrical
eyes, small nose and large mouth mocked her in her death, as they
never had during her life. The counterbalance to these less than beautiful
features--her vitality and her swagger--were now absent for eternity.
A combination of the chaos of her soggy clothes and the
sombreness of death in these circumstances was what convinced
Starrett that there really was such a thing as a human spirit, if only
because it was now so noticeably absent.
Starrett wondered who would cry for Amanda Morrison.
For her final journey, she had been dressed in light-blue
Wellingtons, a calf-length, dark-blue, pleated skirt and a black hooded
plastic mackintosh. One of her Wellingtons was missing, and Starrett
studied her bare ankle. He was a great believet in the theory that people
show their true ages through their ankles and their necks. Necks can be
covered and ankles can be hidden, but they rarely are, unless they need
to be. Amanda's toenails were painted a vital red, a matching shade to
the lipstick once pained on her now blue lips. Starrett studied the toenails.
They were long, very long. The Inspector marked the passing of
time by how quickly his own toenails grew. He had come to the conclusion
that toenails didn't grow at a consistent speed. They grew fast
when your life was hurtling by and they grew slower when your life was
passing at a more reasonable pace. He now focused his attention on the
exposed ankle. It was wrinkle-free and vein-free, which Starrett found
baffling- If she'd been in the water for some hours, surely she should be
showing more signs of her submersion.
Starrett could see a rope burn around this same ankle. It was a
severe burn, with the blacks, blues and purples making a mockery of
her otherwise flawless skin. The colours looked as if they'd be more at
home in a Derek Hill painting than on the snow-white skin of the first
minister's dead wife.
Surely Ivan Morrison couldn't be responsible for this slaying? But
then again, perhaps fuelled by a need for vengeance, it was possible that
he'd sought and obtained retribution on James Moore. Surely, however,
there could be no reasonable explanation or justification for wreaking
this kind of havoc against his own wife.
Dr Aljoe said something to him. He could see her lips moving and
he could see her looking at him, but, between his own distraction and
the noise of the wind, he didn't hear her words.
"Sorry?" he said.
"It looks like she committed suicide," Dr Aljoe repeated.
The look he returned to her must have said, "Suicide! Are you
crazy?" because that was exactly what he was thinking.
"She came down here in the rain with a heavy heart and stones in
her pockets. From what I can tell, she must have lost her nerve to jump,
because it appears she started to climb down the ladder towards the
water. She lost her footing, fell towards the water, but caught her foot
in the mooring rope and tumbled headlong downwards. She was found
off the end of the pier, dangling by her leg, with her head just under
the water. Her skirt had fallen over her head. She was spotted only
when the fishing boat came in. If she hadn't become entangled in the
rope, well, goodness knows when, if ever, the body would have been
washed up."
"You're absolutely sure there is no way someone could have done
this to her?"
I don't see any unexplained marks about her body," the doctor
said, a little defensively. "If she was brought here forcibly to be thrown into the water, there's no way she wouldn't have struggled."
"But the rope around her ankle, the skirt up over the head, showing
off her womanhood, you know: could it be another publicly humiliating
display like the crucifixion?"
Dr Aljoe softened her stare into a gentle and caring look, as if she
understood what was going through his mind. She looked as if she
wanted to spare him the embarrassment of being contradicted in public.
He loved her for what he saw in her heart.
"You're most probably right," he eventually said. "It's too public a
place to carry out an evil deed; it's not a public enough place to leave a
body expecting it to be seen. She would have been under water at high
tide."
Starrett gave permission to bag the remains. It had started to rain
again. The inspector watched as some of crime scene people diligently
continued their work, minutely searching the deck of the pier,
though he suspected that any evidence had long since been washed
away. However, on top of one of the wooden supports, which disappeared
into what was reputedly some of the deepest end-of-pier
waters in Europe, he spied a pink handbag, just sitting there, resisting
the wind and the rain. It was fixed to the joist with a piece of wire,
no thicker than that of a coat hanger. He borrowed a pair of white
gloves from one of the team and carefully released the bag. He
gingerly opened it, Dr Aljoe at his side. The bag was empty, apart
from a piece of paper. Starrett sheltered the handbag with his body as
he placed the piece of paper in a see-through evidence bag and then
held it up to the light.
The writing was neat, circularly formed and feminine.
Dr Aljoe quietly read out the words:

Sorry,

I'm tired of being in love and being all alone,
When you're so far away from me.
I leave myself
My friends
And all,
For Love.

Amanda

Starrett read and then reread the note several times.
"Mark Knopfler and William Shakespeare, in that order," Aljoe
offered.
"Sorry?"
"Her first two lines are from Mark Knopfler's song 'So Far Away',
and the final four are a quote from Shakespeare's Two Gentlemen of
Verona" she said, both of them still looking at the note.
"You can't help but think she was one of those poor unfortunates
who feel that taking one's life by drowning is a pleasant way to die. Let
me tell you something, Samantha, drowning never ever happens in
graceful slow motion. It's a quick, brutal and violent way to end one's
life. It's certainly never the thing of beauty it's made out to be."
"You won't get any arguments from me, Starrett."

"But I suppose when you're in a hurry to leave . . ." Starrett said,
feeling a need to lighten the situation, "you never stop to check what's
on the other side of the door."
"Look," she went on, gently touching his arm, "I've got to get back
to Letterkenny General."
"Sam, I . . . ah," he started.
But he stopped.
He stopped because he'd just seen the remains of a person who had
been destroyed by this thing called love. He stopped because he knew
how close he and the doctor were to falling into some kind of love of
their own. He stopped because he couldn't find the words to express
how he wanted to try to preserve the higher love that might have blossomed
again between himself and Maggie Keane. He stopped because
he didn't want to sully that love, even though it was intangible and
probably never ever attainable.
Then he thought about James Moore and Nora Moore; about Dan
McGuinness and his absent wife; about Nora and Dan McGuinness;
about Ivan Morrison and Amanda Morrison; and then he completed
the circle by thinking about James Moore and Amanda Morrison. In
that moment, he thought he knew that chasing the unobtainable was
not just a waste of everyone's time; it was a pure unforgivable waste of
life.
Perhaps love really was just where you found it.
Samantha Aljoe, in her silly plastic suit, with her magnificent hair
bunched and crunched up in some elasticated plastic cap, looked at
him as if she understood all of the above. What's more, she looked as
if she were aware of the decision he was reaching.
"I'll ring you later," she said, with the familiarity of a lover.
She left him standing on the end of Rathmullan Pier looking after
her. He kept looking after her until she reached the land end of the pier,
hopped into her car and drove off.

Chapter Thirty-Eight





STARRETT AND GARVEY were tempted to stop off for a drink in
the White Hart, but all the police activity on the end of the pier
had produced quite a crowd of onlookers, and Starrett could just
see the headline in the following week's Donegal News: "Garda Officers
Down Pints Midway Through Murder Investigation". What with all
the recent, albeit self-inflicted, hammering that the Donegal gardai
had received, sensitivity was at the top of the agenda, so they agreed
they would nip into the Bridge Bar for a pint of Brid's finest in
Ramelton.
On the way back, they stopped off at Betsy Bell's. It seemed to
Starrett she'd been expecting the worst, because she had Eileen
McLaughlin keeping her company. The two gardai who were still
parked in the driveway showed Starrett how Amanda had escaped their
guard through a gap in the hedge at the foot of the garden, their powerful
torch beam illuminating where one person had trudged through
the long grass of an adjoining field. Because the road bent around
sharply to the left just after Betsy Bell's house, the two gardai sitting in
their car wouldn't have seen her go out through the field gate and down
the road. It would have taken Amanda roughly forty-five minutes to
walk into Rathmullan, taking into account the thunderstorm and torrential
rain.
Betsy Bell was brave and philosophical about her friend's death.
"You know," she said, "Amanda was never ever going to have
another happy day in her life. She might have had mediocre days, but
she would most definitely have spent the rest of her life regretting what
might have been."
"Just to think, this time last week she was ecstatic, truly happy for
the first time in her life," Eileen offered, the way people do on solemn
occasions, feeling the need to add something, anything, to the proceedings,
if only to comfort themselves.
"And you're saying she wasn't murdered?" Betsy asked Starrett.
"We obviously have to see what the autopsy has to tell us, but off
the record, we're convinced she took her own life."
"Well, at least that's something; I couldn't bear it if both Mandy
and Jimmy had been murdered," Betsy said. "That would have been
just too sad a story."
Starrett sighed and said, "Betsy, I'm afraid there's no such thing as
a happy story. A happy story is just one that hasn't yet ended."
"Oh, Starrett, I need cheering up, not depressing," Betsy Bell said
as Eileen made similat tuttings.
Statrett grimaced, stretching back his mouth to reveal his fine set of
molars. He couldn't find anything uplifting to say, so he said nothing.
"At least she made her own decision," Betsy said a few seconds later.
"Starrett, have you any idea yet who killed Jimmy?"
"No, Betsy, not yet. But tell me, when Amanda was talking into her
mobile, did she take a call or make the call?'
"I'm sorry, I don't know."
"OK" Starrett replied, "if you're OK here with Miss McLaughlin,
then Packie and myself had better get back into Ramelton and see
what's what."
"We'll be fine," Eileen said, coming over all mother hen.
"Yes, thanks for asking, Starrett, but we'll both be dandy. I dare say
we'll crack open a bottle of claret or two to celebrate Mandy's life."


On a typical Monday night, the Bridge Bar is relatively quiet. On the
Monday Starrett and Garvey went for their drink, punters were as rare
as albino crows, so they managed to find a table easily and were left in
peace to enjoy their pints and discuss the case.
"Bejeepers, what an absolute mess this is turning out to be,"
Starrett said, once they'd settled in.
"What if someone wants us to think it was a suicide because they
don't want us to investigate Mrs Morrison's life?" Packie asked, wiping
off his Guinness moustache.
"Well, there was only one set of tracks through the field, besides
which Dr Aljoe was pretty sure Amanda committed suicide."
"But why take the coward's way out?"
"Oh, steady on," Starrett said, breaking into a long whistle. "Tell
me this, Packie, do you remember back to your school days when you'd
take a wild fancy to a girl? I'm sure that you eventually made a connection,
and I'm equally sure that eventually you were dumped--maybe
she shot you down for someone else, maybe even your best mate. Can
you remember how devastated you felt when that happened?
"Yes, I certainly can," Packie replied, with feeling.
"Well, just remember how desperately and absolutely alone you felt,
right? Now multiply that feeling of loss and emptiness by at least a thousand
times, and you'll understand a little of what Amanda Morrison was
feeling. Packie, Amanda Morrison really felt that there was nothing else
she could do but end her life because, to her, her life had already ended,
four days before she gave up her final breath to the sea."
They sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping their Guinness and
allowing their thoughts to buzz around.
"How does this change things?" Packie asked
"Well," Starrett replied, "I feel it's got nothing to tell us about
Moore's death."
"But?"
"But whoever crucified James Moore was indirectly responsible for
Amanda's death."
"Which means that if it was Ivan Morrison who killed Moore, then
he's also destroyed the thing he cherished most?" Packie offered.
"Not to mention saved himself a heck of a lot of embarrassment,"
Starrett replied, somewhat uncharitably.
"Are you going up to the Manse to inform Morrison?" Packie
asked.
"Too late. When I radioed in the details to the Tower Houser, the
major felt that it was only right that First Minister Morrison be
informed immediately. I believe he's already been told. I would have
liked to have done it myself to see how he reacted to the news. But fair
play to the major, there are no flies on him; he'll have him well and
truly sussed. He said to stop in at his house on the way home tonight
for an update. So, Packie me boy, I'm afraid that's me for the night.
I'm off."


But the night wasn't quite over for Starrett. He was in for two more
surprises.
The first occurred immediately he arrived at the major's house.
"I think our friend Ivan Morrison is involved in the Moore murder
some way or other," the major said, before taking a small sip of his
throat-stripping poteen. "Either that or he's the most anal-retentive
man I've ever met. I'd love to see what kind of relationship he had with
his mother."
Starrett had an inkling that this was the same potato-brewed
poteen that the gardai had confiscated from a farm up on Gortahork,
after a woman reported that her husband had gone blind while drinking
the mountain brew. On further investigation, it transpired that the
man's sight was miraculously restored the moment the woman had put
her clothes back on again. Starrett had only to wet his lips with the stuff
to realise he'd much prefer to drink razor blades.
The major's house was safely hidden away in the centre of a budding
forest on the water's side of the Ramelton-Rathmullan road,
about a mile and a half before the latter. From the outside, it was a bit
of a dog's dinner, thanks to the various extensions and rooms which
had been added on over the years. The interior was a different matter
entirely, with antique wood panelling, a smattering of oil paintings,
World War II memorabilia, antique furniture and a sweeping wooden
staircase that took the breath away. The major's study, his pride and
joy, overlooked the Swilly. Three walls were floor-to-ceiling bookcases,
centred around the sturdy wooden door. The fourth had been
knocked through to make a huge window. Starrett and the major had
positioned themselves in grand leather chairs close to the glass wall
and wete contemplating the far side of the lough, as they focused on
the poteen.
"Oh, bejeepeis, Major, how on earth do you drink this stuff?
Starrett asked, shaking his head violently from side to side.
"After a time the warm flush that rises inside you starts to grow very
darn pleasant."
"Yes, I believe paint stripper has a similar effect, but I'm not sure
you'd want to subject your body to it."
"I'll tell you this and I'll tell you no more, Starrett. It's the one medicine,
the only medicine, with the power to make me forget how bad
my back hurts sometimes," the major said with a sigh, as he helped
himself to another generous sip. "Anyway, our friend Morrison ... I
visited him, as you do, to inform him of his bereavement. And I will
admit, Starrett, that even after all these years, it's not something I'm terribly
good at. I always feel, especially as I seldom know the deceased,
I'm not being as visibly regretful as I feel I should be. But anyway, I go
to see the first minister. He opens the door. I tell him I have some grave
news for him. He invites me in. He is more preoccupied with entertaining
me than he is to discover the nature of the grave news I have come
to deliver. He pours me a large whiskey. I sit him down and tell him
what I've needed to tell--that Amanda took her own life. I spare him
some of the gory details, as you do; all the time I'm watching him like
a hawk. He blows some air through his lips. He looks at me. He appears
to me as if he's trying to work out from me how he should be reacting,
but the look on his face is saying, 'Oh, what a stupid girl!' It's a look
usually reserved for one's servants. He certainly doesn't break down. He
doesn't even shed a tear, for goodness sake. But then, Starrett, I bet
you'll never guess what he says to me?"
Starrett grimaces in preparation.
"He said, 'Well, it's good luck she's not a Catholic. At least we'll be
able to bury her in our graveyard.' Can you believe that?"
Some people do behave strangely; it's a way of delaying their
grief."

I know, I know, but this was something different. I mean entirely different!"
Did he make any reference to James Moore?"
Not at all," the major barked, sipping a little too deeply and paying
dearly for it. Starrett had to thump him several times on the back,
when his coughing stopped, the major, in a slightly higher register>
asked, "Is your money on the first minister, Starrett?"
Does that mean yours is?"
"He's a cold fish that one, I'll tell you. Something in his personality
doesn't quite add up. You know, if you told me tomorrow that he'd
murdered James Moore and his wife, I wouldn't be shocked."
Starrett set his glass of poteen down on the major's coffee table.
Ninety-five per cent of Starrett's potent poteen remained in the glass.
The inspector had given up when even the vapours of the drink had
made his eyes water. He said, "I'd better be heading home. Dr Aljoe
was hoping to give me the autopsy report tonight."
Major Newton Cunningham took a long considered look at
Starrett before saying, "Ah, yes, the beautiful doctor. If I were a younger
man and the current Mrs Newton Cunningham weren't around, aye
well, there's a woman who'd certainly tempt me. Mind you, the thing
with these classically beautiful women is that they don't tend to remain
on the open market for very long, if you know what I mean. I'll tell you
this and then you can be on your way... If I were you, I'd be over there
in person to pick up those autopsy results."
Starrett left the major with his bloodshot eyes staring deep into his
rapidly disappearing glass of poteen.


Starrett wasn't Major Newton Cunningham, and so he immediately
returned to his own house. There were already three messages on his
answering machine that had come from the aforementioned Dr Sam
Aljoe. He rang her back straight away.
"Oh, it's you, I've been expecting your call," she said in a sleepy
voice.
"Sorry it's so late," Starrett replied, lighting up his first ciggy of the
day, a ciggy he'd stolen earlier from the ever-diminishing stash Packie
Garvey was carrying for him.
"I'm afraid I've more sad news for you, Starrett," Aljoe began.
"Oh?" Starrett said, taking a long and rewarding drag of the
cigarette.
"Starrett, are you smoking?" asked the doctor.
"Yes."
"I hate to kiss men who smoke, Starrett."
Now there's a deterrent, if ever there was one, Starrett thought, immediately
stubbing out the barely smoked cigarette.
"There, it's gone," he said.
As the thought of kissing crossed Starrett's mind, Maggie Keane's
image flashed in there as well, vying for attention.
"Amanda Morrison was pregnant when she took her life," Dr Aljoe
said after a pause.
"Ah, Jeez, Sam," Starrett said.
"And Starrett, I'm afraid there's more."
"No?"

"I'm pretty sure that James Moore wasn't the father of the baby."


Chapter Thirty-Nine

RIGHT," Starrett ANNOUNCED, raising his voice a decibel or
two. It was the following morning, Tuesday, four days since
the body of James Moore had been discovered, and Starrett
and his team were gathered in the incident room on the first floor of
Tower House. "Let's see what we've got here, and let's see if we can
make any sense of this."
He strolled over to the notice board, which pretty much replicated
the information he'd just been writing up in his crime book that very
morning.
"We've basically ruled Mr Owen Bonner out of this one, have we?"
Major Newton Cunningham asked. The major was resting against a
radiator between two floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked Gamble
Square. His eyes were totally clear, the poteen-induced bloodshot gone,
maybe not long gone, but gone nonetheless.
"Well, we've ruled out a possible motive on his part," Starrett
replied. He realised that he was behaving like a mother, treating his suspects
as children and not really wanting them to go.
"So, who have we in the frame now, then?" the major asked, shifting
around to find a more comfortable position on the radiator.
"Well, we're checking out Daniel McGuinness, with or without
Nora Moore, and we're checking out First Minister Ivan Morrison.
That's really it for the moment, I'm sorry to say."
"Last night's news must put Morrison at the top of the list,
though." Nuala Gibson said. "His trophy wife was pregnant with his
trophy-baby, and here was a mere carpenter in the process of running
off with mother and baby. How far along was the pregnancy?"
"Three months," Starrett replied.
"Are we sure Ivan Morrison was the father?" the major enquired.
"He doesn't seem the type to me."
"No," Starrett replied. "All we know for certain is that Amanda was
pregnant and that James Moore was not the father. I think the first
thing we need to do is ascertain if Ivan Morrison was."
"Well, who else could it be?" Nuala Gibson offered, sounding
shocked. "Surely Amanda Morrison wasn't having an affair with James
Moore and sleeping with someone else at the same time?"
"I would doubt it," Starrett said, "but let's not speculate. Let's first
check out if Ivan is the man. Also, let's not forget that Ivan claims he
didn't know about his wife's affair until after James Moore's body was
discovered, which, if true, would also wipe out his motive. All of which
takes us back to the unlikely pair of Dan McGuinness and Nora
Moore, which I'm not entirely convinced of."
"Starrett, let's not throw away the only crumbs left on our plate. At
least not until the next meal arrives," the major said, looking worried.
"True, true," Starrett replied, searching around for some notes he'd
brought in with him. "I've been thinking about the crucifixion. I think
we're missing something here. I've been trying to discover if there is
anything we could learn about James Moore's death from what the
Gospels tell us about Jesus Christ's crucifixion and from various reference
books."
Starrett could see he'd captured everyone's attention, including his
own. He ran through the facts, as he knew them:

Jesus Christ had been arrested in the early hours of the morning.
His first punishment was from a soldier, who beat Jesus across the face
for not answering the high priest Caiphus questions.
The palace guards then blindfolded Jesus and asked him to identify
them as they paraded past him.
Each soldier, in turn, spat on Jesus and hit him across the face.
Early the following morning, Jesus, battered, bruised, dehydrated and
exhausted from a sleepless night, was taken to the court in the Fortress
Antonia, which was the seat of government ofjudea, to face Pontius Pilate.
Procurator Pilate really wanted nothing to do with the whole affair.

He sent Jesus across to Herod Antipas, the Governor ofjudea.
Jesus suffered no further mistreatment at the hands of Herod, who
immediately returned Jesus to Pontius Pilate.
Pilate had misread the mob and thought that they would have been
satisfied with the beatings and humiliation Jesus had received thus far, but
the ugly mob protested that Pilate was not doing his job properly by defending
Caesar against the pretender who, some say, was claiming to be the
King of the Jews.
Pilate could resist the mob no longer, and eventually, some say reluctantly,
he gave Jesus up to be whipped and sentenced him to death by crucifixion,
literally washing his hands of the whole matter
Jesus was stripped of his clothes, his hands tied to a post above his head
and he was then whipped by a Roman Legionnaire using a flagrum--a
short whip consisting of several leather thongs with two small balls of had
attached near the end of each.
Jesus was whipped about the shoulders, back and legs. The flagrum
would at first cut the skin only, but soon the lead balls would cut deeper,
drawing blood. Eventually blood would start to spurt wildly when some
arteries would be severed.
The centurion in charge would have ensured that the whipping
stopped before Jesus was in fatal danger.
Jesus was untied. His back would have been an absolute mess of skin
and blood, but before He had a chance to pass out, the Romans put a robe
across His shoulders, placed a stick in His hands and pressed down on His
head a crown woven of long thorns. Again there was copious bleeding.
When the Romans tired of mocking and repeatedly striking Jesus, the
robe was torn from His back, the stick removed from His hand, and He was
beaten across the head, gouging the thorn crown even deeper into his scalp
And then he was whipped again.
Then, to comply with Jewish customs, He was allowed to dress in his
own clothes.
The cross was tied across His shoulders, and He and two thieves and
the Roman crucifixion procession, headed by a centurion, made their way
slowly to his place of execution.
By this time, Jesus was obviously much too weak to carry his cross, and
He fell under the weight of it. The rough wood of the cross crushed into
His body, causing further damage. The Romans, now tiring of their sport
and growing impatient, selected a strong-looking North African, Simon of
Qrene, to carry the cross, with Jesus barely stumbling along behind.
It was a 650-yard journey from Pilate's Fortress Antonia to Golgotha.
Jesus was offered, and refused, wine mixed with myrrh, which would
have acted as a painkiller of sorts.
Simon was ordered to place the cross on the ground, and Jesus was
thrown on top of it.
The legionnaire hammered a nail through each of Jesus' wrists and
deep into the wood.
The cross was next raised, then both feet were nailed together, again the
nail going deep into the wood.
The legionnaire would have been careful neither to stretch the hands
to the extreme nor to nail the feet to the cross with the legs fully stretched.
He would have left some "give" in both sets of limbs.
Jesus Christ was now crucified.
His body weight would slowly have pulled him down, and this would
have caused excruciating pain. He would have reacted to this, His brain
totally overloaded because of the unbearable pain, by involuntarily pushing
himself up with His feet.
All this would have done would have been to cause Him even greater
pain.
Then cramp would have set in, and He would have been unable to
push himself upwards. He could breathe in air, but He could not exhale.
He would have fought with himself to steal one last breath. The carbon
dioxide building up in the lungs and bloodstream would have caused the
cramp to subside somewhat.
In spasms He would have been able to push himself upwards to steal a
quick life-saving breath and exhale.
It was during this period that He uttered His seven final recorded
sentences:
The first He said as he looked down and saw Roman soldiers throw
dice for His garments: "Father, forgive them, for they know not what
they do."
The second was to the thief crucified beside him, who sought forgiveness:
Today thou shalt be with me in Paradise."
He then addressed his beloved apostle, John: "Behold thy mother. "And
then to John's mother: "Behold thy son. "
For this fourth cry, He quoted the start of the 22nd Psalm: "My God,
My God, why hast thou forsaken me?"
All the hours of pain he had endured thus far, all the twisting and
turning on the cross and the continued damage this had done to his system
eventually gave way to another, even greater, agony. He would have felt a
crushing pain deep in His chest, as the membrane that surrounded His
heart slowly filled with serum, which started to crush His heart.
Jesus was nearly dead. He had lost a critical amount of tissue. His heart
was losing its struggle, and the tortured lungs were so desperate for gulps of
air.
The drying tissues sent their flood of stimuli to the brain.
His fifth cry was, "I thirst."
A sponge soaked in cheap wine was raised on a lance to His lips. He
didn't, or couldn't, take any.
"It is finished," He said, as the end neared.
After hours of agony He had one final surge; he tried to raise himself up using His feet, tearing them even more on the nail. He steadied himself took
a last breath and cried, "Father! Into Thy hands I commend my spirit."

"Just to make sure Jesus was dead," Starrett said in conclusion, "a
legionnaire drove his lance up through His ribs and into His heart."
"Right barbaric lot, the Romans, weren't they?" the major said at
the end of Starrett's summary. "Here we are 2,000 years later and
people are still getting crucified. It's heartening to know how well civilisation
is progressing."
"Just to think," Garda Casey said, "if there had been a different
crowd there that day, perhaps he'd have got off with just the beating
Pilate wanted to inflict."
"No," Gibson said in disagreement. "You can bet your bottom euro
that even back in those days, there were spin doctors who had their
plants in the crowd, ready for the appropriate moment."
"I saw a documentary about it a few months back," Packie Garvey
said, "and they went back to Golgotha. People were scattered around
the hill in twos and threes, outside their little tents, sitting around
eating or what-have-you, and the commentator said that there were
always people around the hill keeping vigil. I just wondered if there
have been people sitting around on that same hill keeping vigil since
the day Jesus was crucified."
"Maybe our murderer saw the same documentary," Starrett said.
"How much detail did they show?"
"None of the gruesome stuff," Garvey replied. "It was more of a
religious experience--like a pilgrimage. But they did say that the hill
and all the surrounding hills would have been packed with people. It
was apparently like some bizarre tourist attraction."
"But why would people be attracted to that?" Starrett asked,
addressing himself as much as Garvey. "I mean, what's the attraction in
looking at a human who has been reduced to nothing more than a
chunk of meat. You don't see people queuing up outside Gormley's.
Unless ..."
Everyone was staring at Starrett now, as he stared out the window
up towards the butcher's shop close to the bridge over the River Lennon.
"Maybe that's it. . ." Starrett continued quietly.
"Maybe what's it?" Major Newton Cunningham asked.
"It just might be nothing," Starrett said, starting to pack his papers
away. "We're missing something here. Can you please go over all of the
information we have again and then go over it one more time after that?
There must be some name or maybe something else. Garda Gibson,
you and I will pay another visit up to Babylon."
"Anything I can do?" the major asked, as people began to wander
away.
"Well, maybe you could try Betsy Bell again. You had great success
with her the first time."
"Splendid suggestion, Starrett. I can't think of a more pleasant
way to spend my morning," the major said, rubbing his hands with
enthusiasm.

Chapter Forty



ON THE WAY out of town, Starrett pulled into the drive of the
Manse of the Second Federation Church.
Agga answered the door and advised the gardai that First
Minister Morrison had just finished breakfast and was out on his
rounds.
"I do believe I left my hat in the dining room the last time I was
here," Starrett said, drawing a puzzled look from Nuala Gibson. "Do
you mind if I go and look for it?"
Agga and Nuala followed Starrett as he quickly nipped into the
house and the dining room. He looked high and low and everywhere
in between as Agga and Gibson looked on, Starrett entertaining them
with a tale about how the Queen of Sheba was so beautiful that kings
and princes came from all over the land just to try to win her heart.
The Queen of Sheba loved many but stayed with none, and all of
those who fell for her charms were tricked out of their treasures and
wealth.
"It wasn't that any of them shouldn't have seen it coming. I mean,
if only they'd managed to avert their eyes from her beautiful face for the
briefest of seconds, they would surely have noticed her hairy legs and
cloven hooves."
Agga raised her hand to cover her open mouth and then crossed
herself, all the time staring at the inspector.
A few seconds later, Starrett and Gibson left the Manse, but minus
Starrett's alleged lost hat. When they got back in the car, this time with
Nuala behind the wheel, Starrett produced a glass from inside his jacket.
He held the glass gingerly between his thumb and forefinger before placing
a clear evidence bag around it. In the bottom of the glass were the precious
remains of Ivan Morrison's breakfast orange juice.
As Starrett and Gibson negotiated the tricky road into Letterkenny
Starrett noted, with a degree of pride, that yesterday's rain had added
to the richness of the green hills, valleys and waterways.
"Tell me this," Starrett said from his vantage point in the passenger
seat. "Do you by any chance know Maggie Keane?" At the same
time he held on to the glass inside the evidence bag.
If Gibson was surprised by this question, she didn't show it. "Yes,
I know Maggie," she said, without the proverbial batting of an eyelid.
"She went to school with my mam."
"What's your mother's maiden name?"
"McGann; her Christian name is . . ."
"... Phyllis. Of course, Phyllis McGann," Starrett said, his voice
betraying the fact that if he'd been the one driving, they'd probably have
ended up in the schuck. "So, you're Phyllis' daughter? Unbelievable. I
went to the same school as them both."
"I know," Nuala Gibson said, her tone very matter of fact.
"How the devil is Phyllis?" Starrett said, wanting to close this conversation
but needing to find a subtle way to do so.
"Yeah, she's good, she's got her health . . ."
"And a daughter who's showing great promise in the gardai. Who'd
have thought? Has Phyllis met young Francis Casey yet?" Starrett
asked, inching away from his troubled waters, but happily leaving
Nuala out there swimming in the middle of them.
'Not yet, but Francis met Maggie, though."
This shut Starrett up good and proper.
Luckily enough, a few minutes later they arrived at Letterkenny
General Hospital. This time Starrett walked straight through to Sam
Aljoe's office.
Ah, Starrett, it's yourself, as the local nurses in the hospital have a
nabit of saying. Do you always walk around with a glass of OJ, or
should I feel privileged?"
Ah, this," Starrett replied, nodding in the direction of the glass he Was raising to shoulder height. "Tell me this, Doctor, how long will it
take you to tell me if the person who was using this glass is the father
of Amanda's unborn child?"
"Shouldn't take too long," she said, slipping on a surgical glove and
taking the bag from Starrett. "Tell you what," she continued. "Why
don't I take Garda Gibson here through to the lab and introduce her to
young Adhemar Mclvor. She can stay with him and monitor him conducting
the necessary tests. He's a bit of a whizz-kid."
"Good," Starrett said, "because I've got some rather unpleasant
business about Moore's remains to discuss with you."
Starrett waited in Aljoe's shoebox-sized office.
When she returned, Starrett wasn't entirely sure, but he had a
hunch that the doctor had enjoyed a freshening-up visit somewhere or
other on her return journey. He had to admit that she did look stunning,
really stunning, as in "pretty as a picture". Starrett couldn't work
out if he was just being pernickety, but he suddenly had a thought that
Maggie Keane looked the way she looked, whereas Samantha Aljoe was
made up to look the way she looked. Was he merely rising above his station
by thinking he had a choice of these two amazing women?
Dr Aljoe sat down at her desk and swung her chair around to face
him. They were so close, their knees were in danger of touching. No
wonder she'd suggested they met in the Coffee Dock the first day.
"OK," Starrett said. "I think I've found a possible reason why
James Moore was crucified."
"What?"
"My problem was that I was getting too preoccupied with the religious
implications of the crucifixion. I started to fear that two thieves
were also going to turn up nailed to a tree somewhere. I even considered
looking at James Moore's father's life. I was trying to figure out if
Moore had been crucified to save Amanda Morrison's soul."
"Because Jesus was crucified so that all the world could be saved?"
"Something like that, yeah," Starrett replied, trying not to get too
bogged down in the details now that he was trying to leave that theory
behind. "You see, when you're young, you're taught that Jesus Christ
was crucified on a cross with two thieves so that all mankind could be
saved, so we could all go to heaven. Right?"
"Right."
"And the pictures that accompany the scriptures are of this man on
a cross, usually with a crown of thorns on his head and a few droplets
of blood, but always with a look of compassion on his face. It's like he's
saying, 'OK, Father, if you must, I don't mind, just as long as you're
sure that we'll save mankind.' There's a nail through each palm, and
another through both his feet and, again, there's but a few drops of
blood been spilt. He's usually backlit with this powerful beam of light,
which acts as some kind of halo around his head. And the reason for
all of this is so that we don't frighten the children when we're retelling
the story. But the reality is somewhat different. I realised, when I was
discussing the facts of a real crucifixion with my team, that the scene
was more likely to be the totally brutal annihilation of a human
being ..."
"Just like we discovered at the Second Federation Church with
James Moore," Dr Aljoe offered.
"Exactly." Starrett agreed and continued, "Jesus, following his time
of punishment on the cross, would have been totally unrecognisable.
He would have looked more like a carcass in a butcher's shop than the
bearded gentleman he'd been forty-eight hours previously."
"So, you're saying that the person who crucified James Moore was
trying to make sure we wouldn't recognise him?"
"No," Starrett replied, but paused for a second to consider this as
a possibility. "What I'm saying is that perhaps we should consider that
this murder wasn't part of a master plan. What if someone with an axe
to grind met up with James in the early hours of the morning, just as
he was leaving Amanda Morrison's bed? This person started fighting
with James, and the fight got out of control. Maybe it ended when
James just didn't get up, following one of the punches. The boyo in
question, following some time of panic, calmed down, started to think
this through, and realised that his evidence was all over James, so he
orchestrated the crucifixion, complete with side-show, purely and
simply to hide the signs of the original fight."
OK, that makes sense to me," Aljoe said. "So what you want to
know from me is: did any of this show up in the autopsy?"
That's the sixty-four million dollar question."
"Well, if that was the plan, Starrett, it certainly was very effective."
Meaning?"
'Meaning that James Moore was in such a sad state it would be
impossible to tell which of his injuries killed him. I can tell you this,
though: with the amount of blood spilt on the floor up around the pulpit
of the Second Federation Church, James Moore was still alive when
he was nailed to the cross. I don't know how strong his heart would
have been, but it was still pumping blood."
"Which kind of blows my theory right out of the water?"
"Well, perhaps and perhaps not. Perhaps it started out as a fight
and escalated into something else. Tell me this, Starrett, are you saying
this because you've discovered someone with bruising around their fists
which would suggest that such a fight took place."
Starrett took a moment to consider his five suspects.
"Actually, no." He sighed. "Which kind of shoots my theory down
in an even larger pile of flames?"
At which point, Nuala Gibson and Adhemar Mclvor turned up at
Dr Aljoe's door.
Gibson offered Starrett a resigned smile and said, "Well, it would
appear that First Minister Ivan Morrison is not the father of his wife's
child, either."
"Then who could it be?" Dr Aljoe asked, studying Adhemar's
findings.
"Ask me one on Mary from Dunloe," Starrett said.
"Who's Mary from Dunloe?" Aljoe asked.
"Now that is a good question," Starrett said. "Let me get back to
you on that one as well."

Chapter Forty-One

Let's HEAD STRAIGHT on over to Nora Moore's," Starrett said,
as soon as he and Gibson were back in the car. This time he
sat behind the wheel and they bypassed Ramelton by taking
the N56 to Kilmacrenan, over the remote Loughsalt Mountains, past
Glen Lough, skirting Carrigart, and down into Downings.
They drove pretty much in silence. Following his return from
London, Starrett had sworn to himself that he would never ever take
the Donegal countryside for granted again, so he tended to prefer to
drive in silence, savouring his journeys through the spectacularly dramatic
surroundings. He also liked to use his time to run through the
facts of his cases. The James Moore case was proving to be one of those
cases where the more he learned, the greater the mystery became.
As they drove into Downings, he chose to distract himself from the
case in hand by viewing some of the beautiful young ladies they passed.
"Tell me this, Nuala, and tell me no more," he said, breaking his
silence. "You see that girl there?"
'What, the one with the tight jeans and the ponytail?"
That's the one. Now, you see the way she's walking, like
swaggering?"
Yeah?" Gibson replied hesitantly.
"Hopefully this isn't a question which will have me up in front of
the auld tribunal," Starrett said, "but can you tell me if she's walking with that particular swagger because she has a ponytail, or if she has a
ponytail because she walks with that swagger in the first place?"
"Well, it's easy," Gibson replied. "She walks with that swagger so
the cars will stop and she can get to the other side of the road."
"Fair play to you, Nuala," Starrett chuckled, as they pulled up at
the Moore house. "Right, here we are."
Nora Moore seemed to be maintaining better spirits. She took
Starrett and Gibson through to the kitchen and instructed Chris to
make tea and sandwiches for the two detectives.
"When you were here last, I seemed to forget that you're actually
on our side," Nora said, sidling up to her son. "It took my first-born
here to point out to me the error of my ways." She briefly hugged her
son, who gave her an "Oh, mam" kind of shrug. "Have you made any
further progress?"
"Well, did you hear . . . ?"
"You mean about poor Mrs Morrison? Oh, my goodness, it's all
people are talking about, even if they go all quiet when I come around
them. Did she really kill herself?"
"Yes," Starrett sighed. "It seems pretty cut and dried."
"Very sad; God will never bless her soul now. She must have been
at her wits' end."
"Nora, can we talk to you about the last time you saw Jimmy?"
Starrett asked suddenly.
"Yes, of course," she replied immediately.
There was something about Nora Moore that Starrett couldn't
quite put his finger on. It wasn't that she was exactly blossoming in the
wake of her husband's untimely death; far from it, in fact. It was more
that there was an inner resolve and strength Starrett hadn't expected following
their first meeting. Starrett noticed that Chris followed her every
move. Perhaps he was the power behind her strength.
"We all sat down to dinner, didn't we, Chris?"
"Yes, we did, Mam," he dutifully replied, bringing Nuala Gibson
over a cup of tea. He then offered her milk and sugar before repeating
the same process with Starrett, who asked, "Do you know where he
went after dinner?"
"He just went out," Nora replied. "Didn't he, Chris?"
"Yes, Mam," Chris replied, adding, "I mean, there wasn't an atmosphere
or anything. Mam and Dad weren't arguing or anything like that.
"No, no, we weren't fighting," Nora said, picking up her son's
thread. "Jimmy and I had gone beyond that. Well, we never really
argued, to be honest. Confrontation wasn't really Jimmy's thing. He
had his own opinion, he knew mine was possibly different, but he'd
never try and persuade me to his way of thinking. He believed in live
and let live. You know, Chris and I were talking about this last night.
Jimmy was a good man and a great father, and I know you're meant to
react in a certain way when your husband is cheating. You know, string
him up by his short-and-curlies. But, with hindsight, it would have
been good if Jimmy could have found some peace and contentment in
his life, and if Mrs Morrison was the woman he could have enjoyed
that with . . . Goodness, maybe I'd have been able to find some peace
for myself. Jimmy and I really were just the wrong people for each
other. It's as simple as that. We'd never have married in today's society.
We'd have had our fling and gone our separate ways. Mind you, we did
bring three wonderful children into the world, and I'll respect Jimmy's
memory until the day I die, if only for that."
"OK," Starrett said. "When you told me your husband just went
out, did you think he was going out to his workshop, or to the pub, or
around the corner to a mate?"
"Whe
the
"No," it was Chris who was to reply. "I remember hearing his van
door close and hearing him drive off."
van now:
"I don't know. You know, that's weird," the wife and mother
replied. "I haven't even thought about that van for a second since . . ."
"Chris, what kind of vehicle was it?" Starrett asked quickly.
"It was an old, light-green VW van," Chris replied.
And the number?" Gibson asked.
"GE 580 T," both Moores recited.
So," Starrett continued, as Gibson took a note of the registration
number, "did you think he was going out on a job?"
The thing about my father, Inspector, was that he didn't really consider
carpentry to be work, so it wouldn't have been unusual for him to
get up from the dinner table and go back to a job. He wasn't a great
drinker; he wasn't big on the telly. We wouldn't have thought much
about it."
'And did you manage to think of anyone he might have been making
the pulpit out in his workshop for?" Starrett asked.
Well, now, funny you should ask, but I was searching through my
father's papers, and I came across this order form. It was actually commissioned
by L'Opera."
"The new disco in Letterkenny?"
"Apparently," Chris replied.
"OK, we're nearly done," Starrett said. "I've just got one more
question: Mrs Moore, did your husband have a habit of leaving his ring
off when he was out working? I understand some builders and carpenters
do, you know. Apparently rings can get caught in nails or splinters
and be quite dangerous."
"No, Jimmy never took the ring off from the day we were married.
It was quite tight."
"Could you describe it to me, please?" Starrett asked, proving that
a garda's final question is rarely the last.
"Yes, of course," Nora replied. "It was made of silver, with a small
Celtic shield on it; you know, the one with the three interlocking eternal
circles of life?"


"How come we've not come across the VW van?" Nuala asked, as they
headed back towards Ramelton.
"You'd have to say that was poor work on our part," Starrett admitted,
"Particularly with the distinctive Northern Irish registration plate."
"Shall we pop in and see Dan the Man again?"
"I do need to," Starrett admitted, "but I haven't learned enough since
the last time to be in a position to ask him any more meaningful questions,
so let's leave it for now and head straight back to Tower House.
Twenty minutes later, they were back in Ramelton.
"Just in time to catch a quick brecky in Steve's before the school
crowd," Starrett said.
"I think I'll pass on that one," Nuala said, hopping out of the car.
"What, another morning of mineral water and an apple or orange
for you and Francis?"
She stopped in her tracks and slowly sat back into the car again,
leaving the door open.
"I'd been meaning to have a quick work with you about that,
Inspector."
"Oh dear, this sounds official," Starrett said, putting the gear stick
into the neutral position.
"Hopefully not tribunal official," Nuala Gibson said, testing her
words the way one might test ice. "If Garda Casey and myself were to
have . . you know, a relationship, would you be OK with it?"
"Would I be OK with it or would the Garda Siochana be OK with
it, do you mean?"
"I'd settle for it being OK with you, as my senior."
"I'm totally fine with it, Nuala. I believe the official point would
be that they don't encourage internal relationships in case it might ever
compromise you in the line of duty."
"I know. I've been thinking about that, and I think we can avoid
putting ourselves in that position."
"So you're convinced about Francis then, Nuala?"
"I think so. It's just that he doesn't say a lot."
"As a law-enforcement officer, you don't really need to say a lot
more than Clint Eastwood ever did. Aye, and he proved to be quite
effective, didn't he?" Starrett said.
Gibson caught a fit of the giggles. "Hardly the first comparison that
would have come to my mind, but you know, Dirty Frankie, I could
probably learn to live with it."
"Aye, and then as Francis often proves," Starrett went on, "just
because he's not saying a lot doesn't mean he's not thinking. I'll tell you
this, Nuala: I'll take a thinker over a talker in my team any day of the
week."
Starrett just wished someone would grant him absolution when it
came to his own affairs of the heart.


Chapter Forty-Two



STARRETT WAS ENJOYING his breakfast when by happy coincidence
who should walk into Steve's Cafe but Sergeant Packie Garvey.
As you're done with your slim pickings there," Starrett said,
nodding at Garvey's tea-mug, "I fancy another wee visit to our man
Colm Donovan. Just to see if anything else has sprung to his mind."
When they arrived at Donovan's yard, there was no sign of Digger,
the albino dog. A woman on a ladder was cleaning the outside of the
kitchen window.
"Is Colm around?" Starrett asked, walking across the yard.
"No, he's not."
"I'm Inspector Starrett and this is Sergeant Garvey."
"Look, sorry about that," she said, stepping down from the ladder
and drying her hands on her apron. "It's just plain stupid trying to
clean windows with J-Cloths. It's a total waste of time. I've sent Colm
down to Whoriskey's to get me some chamois. He's always helping
himself to my stuff. Ah, here he comes," she said as a finely tuned
engine could be heard zooming up the road. "Watch out, he's like a
bear with a sore paw at the minute."
He hopped out of the car without seeing Starrett and Garvey,
glanced at the woman and flung a pack of fawn-coloured material at
her. The lightweight pack decelerated so quickly that it was barely moving
when it hit her on the arm and dropped to the ground.
"Don't be getting shirty with me. You took my last couple," she
said good-naturedly, then swung around in the direction of the gardai.
"Gentlemen, have you met my bad-tempered husband?"
Donovan's head swung around at twice the speed of the rest of his

body.
"Jeez, Inspector, I didn't see you there. Sorry about that," Colm
said, forcing a smile across his stony face. "Women, they'd have you
fecking demented, wouldn't they?"
Garvey opted for words of solidarity, while Starrett held his own
council.
"So, have you locked up yer man yet?" Donovan asked, leading the
two gardai in the direction of the sheds at the opposite end of the yard,
and out of his wife's hearing.
"And who would 'yer man' be?" Starrett asked.
"The first minister himself."
"And why would we be locking him up?" Starrett continued.
"Well, how's about you start off charging him with the murder of
his wife?
"We now know Mrs Morrison committed suicide, Colm," Starrett
replied quietly.
"Or she was murdered in a way that made it look like she committed
suicide," Donovan suggested. "But if not that, then how's about for
crucifying Jimmy Moore?"
"Give us an excuse," Starrett replied, keeping up the pace of the
exchange.
"Jimmy was sleeping with the minister's wife."
"That's not an excuse; that's a possible motive," Starrett explained.
But he claims he wasn't aware of the affair until after Jimmy's body
was found."
"Oh he does, does he?" Donovan mocked. "Is that what he claims?"
It is," Packie confirmed.
"Well then, I can prove to you that he knew different," Donovan
said. Opening a door of a corrugated-iron hut and using a dustbin
incinerator to jam the door open, Donovan showed them in out of the
sunlight.
The hut was a mess. It was obviously used to store things Donovan
would most likely never ever need or use again in his entire life, but
stuff that seemed too valuable to throw away: the shiny drum of a
tumble dryer, for instance; a video machine; a television set with a
screen coated with dust.
"Really, Colm," Starrett said, keeping his voice neutral. "And how
can you prove that?"
"Simple one that," Colm said, removing the pack of Camels from
the sleeve of his shirt. Starrett and Garvey waited while Donovan
offered them each a cigarette, which they refused, lit his own, and took
a deep drag. They watched him relax a little as the nicotine worked its
way into his bloodstream.
Then he finally spoke: "You know how the first minister likes to
think he's a bit of a whizz on the keyboards, and how he loves to
compose?"
"Yeah," Starrett agreed. "I seem to remember someone telling us
about that."
"Well, on the pretext of wanting to be able to record music from
anywhere in the house, he had the entire house wired for sound."
"Right," Starrett replied, with an image in his head of Morrison on
the toilet playing a keyboard and singing "Raindrops Keep Falling on
My Head."
"A mate of mine who used to work for RTE did the work for him,
and one of the rooms he wired for sound was the spare room upstairs."
Donovan looked first to Starrett, then to Garvey, and then back to
Starrett, hoping the penny would drop.
"The spare room upstairs eventually became Mrs Amanda
Morrison's room . . ."
"Right," Starrett replied. "And do you know if the system is still
operative?"
"Still operative, and let's just say the first minister had been recording
a different sort of music being played recently in his wife's
bedroom."
"And where is all of this controlled from?" Starrett asked.
"From the first minister's office," Donovan replied, a bit of a sneer
on his face. "There's a door in the wall just by his desk. It's not full
height, which, of course, he doesn't need, does he now?" Donovan said,
pausing for a laugh. "It looks more like the door to a cupboard, but the
space is big enough for a piano, an organ, speakers and his recording
set-up, which consists of a mixing-desk, tape recorders and what have
you.
"Have you actually heard any of these recordings?" Starrett asked.
Donovan looked as if he were going to reply but thought better of
it. Eventually he said, "Don't just take my word for it. Go and check it
out for yourselves."


Chapter Forty-Three



THE FIRST MINISTER'S only apparent concession to his recent
bereavement was that, when the gardai came calling, he was dressed in a cassock.
Agga must have been off duty, because Morrison opened the
Manse door himself.
"Ah, Inspector Starrett and . . ."
"... Sergeant Packie Garvey," Starrett added.
"Come in, why don't you?" Morrison said, holding the door open
wider, but still Starrett and Garvey had to do some serious breathing
in to squeeze past the first minister.
"Yes, I'd been hoping you'd call around again. Why don't you go
on through to the living room?"
Starrett led the way, but instead of turning left after the grand
wooden staircase, he turned right into Morrison's study, where he
immediately took a seat and nodded to Garvey to do likewise.
"No, no, I meant the living room with the bay window, next to the
study."
"This is fine for us, very cosy, First Minister. I love the way you've
done it out, very creative," Starrett offered, speaking nineteen to the
dozen. "Tell me, which artist painted this?"
Clearly Morrison was undecided about whether to insist on moving
to the other room. Eventually he spoke: "It's by Charles McAuley.
Have you ever heard of him?" He slipped into his swivel seat and spun
around to face the painting.
"Never, no," Starrett replied. "Now, you said you'd been hoping to

see me?"
"I was quite upset, Inspector, to discover that you knew the whereabouts
of my wife, even though I didn't. In fact, it now becomes apparent
that all the time you were asking me where she was, you already
knew."
"Yes, but if you'd asked me if I knew where she was, I would have
had to tell you; but as you didn't, I was under no obligation to do so.
And, of course, we mustn't forget that your wife was quite keen to keep
a low profile."
"Yes, that's all very well, Inspector, but something happened during
her couple of days' isolation which drove her to take her own life,
and I'd hate to think that it was your harassment of her."
"I can assure you, sir, that no such pressure was applied or implied,
and that Mrs Betsy Bell was never too far away from your wife's side
during any of our exchanges."
"Nonetheless, Amanda took her life," Morrison said, looking like
a dog who'd fought hard for a bone and, having won it, wasn't going to
let it go easily. "I'd like to ask you if she told you anything during your
several exchanges that I should be aware of?"
"For instance?" Starrett asked.
"Oh, you know, anything of a personal nature," said Morrison.
"About you?"
"Yes, about me," the first minister replied, moving his tummy into
a more comfortable position.
"Well, she did say a few things," Starrett began, noticing Morrison
shoot Garvey a quick look. "But, I . . . erm, feel that I need to check
out a few more details before I discuss them with you."
From the look on Morrison's face, Starrett realised in that split
second what it must feel like to be a darts player who has just thrown
three triple-twenties. Since his problem was that he'd thrown his darts
totally blindfolded and hadn't a clue what target he'd hit, he hadn't a c'ue about which direction his questions should now take. Starrett rose
out of his chair and walked across the study, pretending to want to take a closer look at the McAuley. At the last possible moment, he turned
quickly to his left and turned the handle of the small door, at the same
time remarking, "Oh, what have we here, then?"
By the time Morrison had realised what was happening, Starrett
was in the studio area and had managed to find a light switch.
"Sorry, sorry, those are my private rooms. You must come out of
there immediately," Morrison demanded from outside the door.
"What's this, all this studio stuff?" Starrett asked, ignoring his
demand.
Morrison rushed in on Starrett and looked as if he were about to
grab the inspector and physically remove him from the secret room.
Garvey jumped up to restrain the first minister, who brushed the sergeant,
who was no weakling, aside as if he were a piece of driftwood.
Garvey went flying across the room and landed against a shelf beside
Morrison's desk. The contents of the shelf--books, files, a container of
pencils and pens, and a saucer containing loose change, a watch and
some rings--went flying across the floor.
"Get the feck out of here!" First Minister Ivan Morrison roared, his
baritone voice echoing back out into, and around, the hallway. "I'm
warning you!"
Starrett ignored the warning and continued to search the names on
the spines on the rows upon rows of white boxes crammed on to the
shelves that lined the wall behind the mixing desk.
Out of the corner of his eye, Starrett could see Morrison commence
a mad-bull rush at him. Morrison was going at such a speed that
there was no way he was going to be able to stop until he ran into something.
At the last possible moment, Starrett side-stepped to his left, and
a split second after the displaced air whooshed past Starrett's face,
Morrison crashed into the mixing desk, rolled over the top of it and
landed on his head on the other side. His bulk and padding ensured
that he was not badly injured, but equally his generous girth meant that
he was stuck upside down between the desk and the rear wall. His little
legs were still pedalling and he was grunting, heaving, huffing and
puffing, but he just couldn't free himself.
"First Minister, is it OK if the sergeant and I have a look around
this recording studio of yours?"
There was a lot of noise but nothing coherent coming from the
other side of the desk.
"We'll take that as a yes, then," said Starrett.
"What exactly are we looking for?" Garvey asked.
"A tape box with an interesting title. Something like 'spare room
recordings', Amanda, 'JM', or something similar, dated some time over
the last three months," Starrett whispered.
Eventually they found three boxes with the legend "Dot & JM Late
Night" and the dates varying from April to May of that year.
"Do you mind if we play these?" Starrett asked the mass of wobbling
blubber.
"Sounds a bit like swearing to me, but as I know for a fact that a
minister would never swear, I'll take it that you're complying with our
request," Starrett said.
There was a lot more huffing and puffing from Morrison.
"Thanks for confirming that for us," Starrett said, and then, addressing his sergeant, "Packie, are you any good at working these tape
recorders? I'm terrible with this sort of stuff."
"Yep," Packie replied, taking the spool from the first box and
threading it into a small tape-machine built into the wall. "Hopefully
we can play it on its own speaker, because with the minister here, I'm
not going to be able to get at the controls properly."
Packie did manage to play the tape-recorder through its own tinny
sounding speaker. The tape hiss gave way to the sound of a door opening
and closing quietly. The recording system must be sound activated,
Starrett figured.
What the three of them heard was not the sound of two people
hopping between the sheets and cheating on their spouses, but rather
the sound of two people who obviously cared for each other deeply,
physically expressing their feelings for each other. Once Starrett ascertained
that the two participants were Mrs Amanda Morrison and Mr
James Moore, he turned off the tape.
Starrett and Packie waited until Ivan Morrison's huffing and 
puffing stopped and he'd calmed down. In the meantime, they tidied up
as best they could. Starrett replaced the fallen shelf Garvey had overturned.
He picked up the books and repacked them on the shelf. He
replaced the files on the end of the bookshelf near enough to where
they'd been gathering dust several minutes previously. They picked
up the numerous pencils and pens from the four corners of the floor
and finally replaced the loose change and other items back on the
saucer. These other bits included paper clips; cufflinks in the shape of
a question mark (obviously for when Morrison was in an agnostic
mood) a watch that had long since stopped, and three rings. One of
the rings stopped Starrett in his tracks. It was silver, with a wee shield
with a Celtic design of three circles engraved on it. Starrett checked
the drawers in Morrison's desk until he found a brown 10x8-inch
envelope. He placed the saucer and its entire contents in the envelope,
sealed it, signed and dated the flap and then had Packie witness
the signature and date.
"OK, First Minister, we'll help you up out of there if you promise
to calm down."
"OK, OK, just get me out of here," came the muffled reply.
Starrett and his sergeant set about the monumental task.
After a few failed attempts, Starrett said, "There's as much chance
of getting him out of there as there would be getting Quasimodo to
stand up straight."
Morrison had hit the recording machine with such force that it had
moved towards the wall as he tumbled over it. The simple solution to
the problem was to move the recording equipment (and the minister),
back from the wall, but at first it wouldn't budge. Finally Garvey figured
out that the wheels had been locked in a stationary position. As
soon as he'd established how to release the lock, the machine came away
from the wall easily, and First Minister Morrison tumbled unceremoniously
over the wall side of the recording equipment and fell in a heap
on the floor.
Starrett helped him up and dusted down the now surprisingly
meek and mild-mannered minister.
"Are you arresting me?" were his first coherent words for several
minutes.
"If necessary I am, but in the meantime, I'm inviting you to
accompany us to the garda station to help us with our enquiries,"
Starrett replied quietly.
"Can I go in my own car?"
"No," the Inspector replied firmly.
"Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do," Morrison
said, as he led the two gardai out of the Manse.
Morrison insisted on sitting in the front of the car with Starrett on
the short journey down to Gamble Square. He also insisted on
following Garvey and Starrett into Tower House. As there were only a
few people in the square at the time to witness the short procession-- a few housewives out for the day's messages, and Colm Donovan on
yet another run to Whoriskey's--there really wasn't much point to
Morrison's visual statement. Yet everything Morrison did, he did for
show, Starrett thought. But surely that couldn't have been his motivation
for murdering his wife's lover?


Chapter Forty-Four

"DO I NEED my solicitor?"
The three men were seated in the interview room, a long,
cold, purple-painted room, half of which was underground.
The barred windows that overlooked Gamble Square were at
ground level. Although the bars were mainly to keep out the local
villains who seemed to think that there were always vast quantities of
confiscated drugs on the premises at Tower House, they did serve to
bring a certain degree of seriousness to most of the interviews that took
place in there.
Garvey turned on the tape-recorder and announced, for the record,
the names of those present.
"Well, First Minister Morrison, it's entirely your call if you would
like your solicitor present," Starrett said, once the preliminaries had
been taken care of. He was sitting at one end of the table, fingers laced
behind his head. His feet were up on it, and he was using his legs to
push his chair back to a precarious angle. "At this point, we're not
charging you with anything. We just need to ask you a few questions."
"OK, let's proceed," Morrison replied, in a voice usually reserved
for the pulpit. "However, I wish to advise you that I reserve my right
to ask for my solicitor at any time I deem necessary." He was sitting
directly across the table from Garvey, with Starrett to his right. Garvey
had removed a notebook from the breast pocket of his uniform and was
preparing to make notes.
"OK, First Minister," Starrett began, "do you remember when we
first interviewed you, you told us that the first time you were aware of
your wife's relationship with Mr James Moore was on the morning Mr
Moore's body was found crucified in your church?"
"I do remember that, and I accept that's what I said," Morrison
replied.
"Right, so," Starrett continued. "Would you now concede that the
tape-recording we just listened to in your study in the Manse, the tape
recording you made of your wife and Mr James Moore in your wife's
bedroom, proves that you were aware of your wife's relationship as early
as April this year?"
"I accept that as well, Inspector."
"Do you accept that this now means you had a motive for murdering
your wife's lover?" Starrett said.
Garvey made a fuss of finding a clean page in his notebook and
had his pen poised at the ready for the first minister's answer.
"I accept that to be so," Morrison replied curtly.
"And do you realise that, in 1879, street lighting using electricity
was used for the first time anywhere in the world, on a street in
Newcastle, England, in fact?" Starrett asked.
"Sorry?" Morrison asked, looking totally confused.
"Well, I just wanted to be sure you were still with us," Starrett
explained. "It's just that I'm not sure you realise the seriousness of the
situation. Perhaps you do need your solicitor, Ivan."
"Inspector, I'm answering your questions truthfully," Morrison
replied, looking a little flustered.
'Yes, but can you see where this is leading?"
I can see where you might think it's leading, Inspector," Morrison
replied. "Yes, I did lie to you when I told you I found out about my wife's
indiscretions only on the morning of Moore's murder. I realise that, in
your mind, the fact that I had prior knowledge that my wife was 
cheating on me gave me a motive for murdering Moore, and some men might
have reacted in such a way. Quite simply, I am not one of those men.
When Thomas Black, my loyal servant, came to me on Friday morning
last, he felt he was doing me a favour by tipping me off as to what was happening. Of course, I pretended that it was the first I'd known of it. I
am the first minister of the Second Federation Church, for heaven's sake.
I have a status to maintain in the community; I have a responsibility to my flock. Of course, I knew what my wife was up to, and I knew about
all of her other lovers as well. My wife and I had an agreement, and the
agreement was that she would be discreet. And she was discreet. But then
she fell for our carpenter. The rest, as they say, is history."
"OK, earlier this morning," Starrett started, "we removed several
items we found in your study."
Morrison looked worried.
"We are now opening an evidence bag containing these items,"
Starrett said, making a noisy fuss of tearing open a brown envelope and
taking particular care to keep the tear away from his and Garvey s signatures.
He removed the white china saucer with its contents from the
bag it which it had been placed after being fingerprinted. "Do you
recognise this?"
"Yes, of course, it's from my study. I hate to have loose change in
my pockets, so I always dump it on that saucer. When it fills up, I put
it in one of the several charity boxes in our church."
"Is loose change all that's kept in the saucer?" Starrett asked.
"Of course not. You can see for yourself. There's a watch I've been
meaning to have fixed, and there are my cuff-links and a couple of
rings," Morrison replied in the voice of an intolerant parent.
"I'd ask you to confirm to me that all of these items are yours?"
Starrett pushed.
"I've already acknowledged they are," Morrison said.
"Would you just humour me and put this ring on your finger,
please?" Starrett said, handing him the ring with the Celtic shield on
it. Testing for fingerprints had revealed it to be wiped cleaner than a
nun's conscience.
Morrison took the ring and then dropped it back on to the saucer
as if it had burnt him.
"That's not mine," Morrison snapped. "It's obviously too small for
my hand. Look, I said a couple of rings, and here are the couple I was
referring to."
Morrison took the other two rings and showed that they fitted on
to his finger.
"So who does the other ring belong to?" Starrett asked.
"I don't know. It's certainly not mine!"
"I know that because I suspect that this ring belonged to Mr James
Moore," Starrett said.
Morrison recoiled into his chair with such a force that it appeared
he'd been smacked across the face.
"It can't be! It can't possibly be. What was it doing in my study?"
"That's exactly what we'd like to know, First Minister," Starrett

replied.
"You planted it in my study; that's what happened. You're trying to
plant evidence on me!" Morrison shouted, now totally losing control.
"Well, you've already admitted to us that you've lied about having
prior knowledge of your wife's affair. What's to say that you are not
lying to us about this?"
"You think I'm going to leave anything as incriminating as that
lying about my house for all to see?"
"Well, let's be fair here, Ivan, you didn't exactly leave it in full public
view. In fact, one could say that you went out of your way to hide
it. You hid it in your secret den, the same secret place you used to spy
on your wife," Starrett said.
This time Morrison didn't reply.
"Did you lie to us about anything else?" Starrett asked.
"Perhaps 'lie' is too strong a word, Inspector. Shall we just say that
I was less than forthcoming with information when you enquired if I
knew of any other men Amanda was having an affair with."
"OK, Ivan, how about you be a wee bit more forthcoming with us
now?" Starrett asked.
"Oh, you know, there was a lecturer from Queen's University who
she went out with for a time; a television presenter for the BBC in
Belfast; then a TD from Dublin. She seemed to concentrate on professionals,
people who had as much to lose as she did if the affair were
discovered. That was perfect for me really; as I say, discretion was all
I was asking for. Then she seemed to develop a taste for a bit of rough
and, what was worse, a bit of rough that lived on our doorstep."
"You mean James Moore."
"Well, Moore wasn't her first bit of local rough," Morrison said,
seeming more comfortable with this line of questioning.
"Oh, and who was the first?" Starrett asked, wondering if even an
obvious snob like Morrison could be referring to Owen Bonner as a bit
of rough.
"That would have been a local builder called Colm Donovan."

"You're sure about that, First Minister?" Starrett asked. The wind
had totally departed from his sails.
"Sure about it?" Morrison snapped. "I've got hours of tapes to
prove it, and they make the tapes you just eavesdropped on sound lik
kindergarten tea-parties by comparison, which incidentally is why you didn't find them on your recent raid of the Manse."

Chapter Forty-Five





STARRETT LEFT THE basement and went straight out for a breath of
fresh air. He wasn't surprised to see the very same Colm Donovan
sitting across the square in his car, making a production out of
reading the Donegal News. Starrett started walking towards the opposite
pavement in a direction that would take him right past Donovan's car.
He passed Eamonn Friel's, the mobile barber's, on the way, and just as
he was about to pass Donovan he made a fuss over spotting him.
"Ah, Colm, didn't expect to see you again so soon."
"Aye, just in for a bit of a trim and a read of the auld paper.
Anything to get a bit of a break from the wife; you know what it's like,"
Donovan said, starting to fold up the paper noisily.
Starrett leaned over the car, his left arm resting on the roof.
"Thanks a million for that tip-off on First Minister Morrison, by
the way," Starrett said. "We found the recording equipment just where
you said we would. You'll be happy to hear that we also found a few
other bits of incriminating evidence as well. Packie's in there right now,
questioning the first minister."
"Aye, no bother, no bother at all," Donovan said. "Er, has he pleaded
guilty yet?"
Not as yet, but with all the circumstantial evidence we've collected,
I'm not sure we're going to need the auld confession. He can save that for his maker, can't he?"
"Aye, you're right there, but it's a sorry auld mess though, isn't it?"
Donovan said.
Just then, a proud housewife with her recently scalped and severely
embarrassed son walked out of the back of the mobile barber's van.
"Right, I'm up next," Donovan said, as he finished folding the
paper into four and throwing it on to the seat beside him.
Starrett opened Donovan's car door for him and walked him over
to the barber's. Starrett followed him up the steps, but stayed leaning
against the doorframe as Donovan strolled over to take a seat.
"Aye, just a little bit off the back and sides," Donovan instructed.
"Leave the top as it is."
"Right, we're to leave the piebald bit for the experts, are we,
Colm?"
"Ach, aye," Donovan said submissively as the barber wrapped a
towel around his neck, covered the towel with a Royal Blue cape and
began to clip away.
"Right then, Colm, I'm off. I'll leave you with one bit of advice,"
Starrett said, removing a pen from his top pocket. "Never criticise your
barber's football team."
They all had a good chuckle at that, and Starrett finished writing
something on a piece of paper he'd unearthed from one of his pockets.
Walking towards Donovan and the barber, he said, "Colm, here's the
number of my direct line over in the station, just in case anything else
comes to you on our boyo indoors. You'll give us a shout, won't you?"
Starrett fumbled with the pen as he was trying to reposition it in
his top pocket. The pen dropped to the floor behind Donovan's back
and close to the barber's feet. As he hunkered down to retrieve it, he discreetly
grabbed as much of Donovan's freshly cut hair--some with the
roots still intact, proving that the comb is mightier than the scissors-- between thumb and bent forefinger as he could.
In a matter of a minute, Starrett was racing up the steps of Tower
House. He blagged an envelope from the desk sergeant and placed the
valuable hair inside. Then he rushed upstairs and, within another three
minutes, he was in his car and speeding along the Letterkenny Road
with Sergeant Garvey and Garda Casey not too far behind in a garda
van.
They tore along the road just inside the 10 per cent over the official
speed limit they were legally allowed. Just past the Silver Tassie,
they hung a quick right, pulled into Donovan's yard and drove straight
across to the corrugated-iron shed. Starrett hopped out and pointed to the dustbin-shaped domestic incinerator.
At this point, Mrs Donovan came running out the back door to see
what all the fuss was about.
"What's the problem, Packie?" Mrs Donovan shouted. "What's

going on here?"
"Mrs Donovan, I'm afraid we have to confiscate the auld incinerator,"
Starrett said. "Sure, you know it's illegal to burn any domestic
stuff in your garden these days."
"Aye, well, take it then; it's no loss to me. The soot plays havoc with
the clothes on the line when I does me washing."
"Right then," Starrett replied quickly. "Thanks for the permission."
As the garda convoy pulled out of Donovan's yard, the van hung a
left into Ramelton and Starrett took a right towards Letterkenny.

THE DUST OF DEATH
263






Chapter Forty-Six
I

a Tt's you AGAIN," Dr Aljoe said, welcoming Starrett into her tiny
office. "People will be starting to talk. My only problem is that
we're not really giving them anything to talk about yet"
"I've got a deal to offer you," Starrett said, taking the envelope from
out of his inside pocket. "Could you please have your boy genius
Adhemar check and see if the owner of this hair is the father of Amanda
Morrison's unborn child?"
"Another potential father, you mean? That's three, Starrett.
Unbelievable! That means Amanda was the recipient of four times the
average sexual activity of this teddy-bear-shaped country of yours."
"Four eh? Which means that one in four . . ."
"Exactly! Starrett, I can do the mathematics as well. One in four
never knows the pleasure."
"And the other side of the deal is, while Adhemar is busy on that,
I'll take you to lunch."
"Well now, how could a girl refuse such an offer? Just give me a
minute to deliver this to the lab. I'll freshen up, and then I'll be right
with you."
When she returned ten minutes later, she'd freshened up and how. Starrett knew at that very moment that he would probably come to regret the conversation he was determined to have with Samantha Aljoe
over lunch.
Five minutes later, they were in a busy Yellow Pepper. The main
room of the friendly restaurant was packed, so they had to take a table
for two in the back annexe, which was kind of OK because it was more
private in there.
"We seem to have taken a step backwards, some time between our
second date and you visiting me in the lab with that half-drunk glass
of orange juice you wanted me to examine," she said, her usual smile
disappearing from her face.
Starrett was relieved, very relieved, not only that the subject had
been brought to the table, but also at the forthright way she had chosen

to do so.
"The thing is," Starrett said, after the waitress had taken their
order, "during that time someone came back into my life."
"Ah," Dr Aljoe said. "Right, that figures. Has anything happened
between the pair of you yet?"
"No. Nothing at all. In fact, far from it," Starrett protested. "She
walked out on a meal I prepared for her."
"But there's a chance that in the future . . ."
"Well, if I'm being very honest here, because of my previous behaviour,
nothing is likely to happen."
"I see," Aljoe said, a faint hint of a smile washing over her face.
"Mysterious and honourable. I do like a man with a past, you know.
Most women do. Most mothers, on the other hand, don't. Unless of
course they're involved with the man with a past themselves."
"Agreed."
"So, you're reluctant to let anything further happen between us for
fear she might come back to you?"
Their food arrived and the question was left hanging in the air
between them.
"Yes," was all he said once the waitress had left them to their food,
although when she'd asked the question, he had planned to offer a fuller
explanation.
Don't you see all of this is making you even more attractive?" Aljoe
said, enthusiastically starting on her food. She seemed to Starrett to be
a woman who was enthusiastic about everything. "You know, you could
have let things reach their natural predicted conclusion between you
and me, and then just disappeared from the scene?"
Ach, sure," Starrett said, in effect saying nothing.
I suppose part of me wishes that's what you had done."
"But only until such a time as I would have behaved like the cad
you're describing. Then you would have felt totally different about me
and about my taking advantage of you," Starrett said, playing with his
food. "Besides which, there are two other mitigating circumstances."
"Two, Starrett?"
"You and I will continue to come into professional contact, and I
have to try to behave properly, for once."
"Yes, I see. Equally, from what you're telling me, it seems there is a
chance that this other woman won't come running to you. In fact, I
suppose we could speculate that there's an equal chance that she might
even meet someone else and go off and marry him. Then you could
come knocking on my door again."
"Yes, but with my luck there'd be an equally good chance that you'd
also have met and married someone else as well."
"True, very true," she said, appearing to enjoy that scenario. "But
maybe you should still promise me that if plan A doesn't work out,
you'll still, at the very least, come knocking on my door, if only to
check on my marital status. You've got to promise at least to give me
the pleasure of shooting you down, Starrett."
"I promise," Starrett said, wondering why she had to look so beautiful
during such a conversation.
"In the meantime, Starrett, I'd still like to be your friend. I enjoy
your company and," she said, placing her fork in the middle of her
curry and rubbing her hand affectionately on the back of Starrett's
hand, "I do genuinely ... like you ... and, besides which, if I hang out
with you, people will think I'm a lot younger than I am."
Her mobile phone rang a subtle tone and saved Starrett any further
embarrassment. She bent her head low, finger in her free ear, and stared
at the table as she listened intently.
"Yes . . . OK . . . understood. Thank you, Adhemar, good work.
I'm nearly done here. I'll see you soon."
"Well, it's third time lucky for you, Starrett. The man with the
piebald hair was indeed the father of Amanda Morrison's unborn
child."

Chapter Forty-Seven



INSTEAD OF TAKING the main road back to Ramelton, Starrett veered
off to the right just before the Silver Tassie, nearly opposite Colm
Donovan's yard, and headed down towards the water. Although
he'd made a bit of a show with Dr Aljoe of having to get back to
Ramelton as quickly as possible, he really was in no real hurry now.
Two important things had been resolved in the last half hour.
Firstly, he now knew who had murdered James Moore, and he
wanted to spend time reflecting on Moore's life and his family and his
strange bunch of friends. He needed to work out exactly how he could
bring the case to a successful conclusion. It was one thing to know who
the murderer was; it was quite another to prove that fact beyond all
reasonable doubt.
Secondly, he wanted to consider what he'd just resolved with Dr
Sam Aljoe. All things considered, that had gone quite well. Number
one, she'd introduced the subject, and number two, she seemed to have
taken it well. Heck, maybe she realised she'd be better off without him
anyway. At least she'd made a bit of a show about being upset about it,
and at their farewell on the steps of Letterkenny General Hospital, she'd
given him a warm hug and kissed him fully on the lips. It would be just
his luck if Maggie Keane's mysterious source of information had been
observing them and rushed off to spill the beans.
Would he and Dr Aljoe remain friends? Hopefully, he thought.
After all, at the very least, they were going to be working together, and
there was still something about her that intrigued him.
He wondered how his relationship with Samantha Aljoe would
have developed if it hadn't been for Maggie Keane's albeit brief reappearance.
Was their relationship over just because he said it was? Was
it really as easy as that? Had people total control over who they had
relationships with?
He thought back to an instance other than his own, when he had
asked Garvey about a budding relationship he had been having. When
asked if he thought it was going to work out, Garvey had replied, "No,
I don't think so." Did that mean that the relationship was doomed to failure? he asked himself, as he pulled up by the graveyard at
Killydonnell Friary. Starrett's big question to himself as he looked out
over the Swilly back towards Scalp Mountains was, "Is a relationship
bigger than the two people involved in it?"
Starrett repeated his question to himself: Was his relationship with
Aljoe over just because he said it was? That certainly hadn't been a kiss
of friendship she'd given him as a goodbye kiss on the steps outside the
Letterkenny General Hospital. Perhaps she just wanted to let him know
what he was going to be missing.
Where in relationships does it start to go horribly wrong?
Take James Moore and Amanda Morrison, for instance. Amanda
married someone for money, status and security. James married someone
because he was too weak to say no. Both marriages were doomed to failure.
Amanda, young, beautiful and frisky, started to take lovers. She kept
her extramarital relationships discreet and far away from her husbands
parish. Then, in a moment of weakness, she became involved with a local
builder, Colm Donovan. On a sidebar, Starrett wondered what exactly
First Minister Ivan Morrison had meant when he'd said that the tape
recording of Amanda and Colm making love made the one of Amanda
and James Moore sound like a kindergarten tea-party? What exactly had
been captured on tape? Whatever had happened, they'd certainly been
lovers and she'd fallen pregnant with Donovan's child. James Moore, on
the other hand, had remained faithful in a loveless marriage with Nora.
Then both their worlds meet. A seemingly mild-mannered man is
drawn towards a serial adulteress and sex-siren, and they experience, by
all accounts, genuine love.
They start to deal with it, but are powerless to prevent the fallout
they are creating around them. The wronged husband, Ivan Morrison,
becomes aware of the relationship and realises that this time it is different.
If the wronged wife, Nora Moore, already a bit of a casualty herself,
doesn't find fulfilment in the bulky arms of her childhood
sweetheart, she certainly finds the comfort there that she needs. Then
there is the discarded lover, Colm Donovan. Donovan quite simply
can't deal with the fact that he's lost his sexual partner. Given another
six months, their relationship would probably have just fizzled out
when they grew bored of each other sexually, but that hadn't been
allowed to happen. Now, as a result, two people are dead, and the lives
of several others will never be the same again. And it could all be traced
back to the moment James Moore went into Betsy Bell's house to
rebuild her kitchen.
As Starrett walked back to his car, he wondered if all the players in
the drama had been powerless to change the events and their outcome.
Then he thought about Maggie Keane, Samantha Aljoe and himself;
how would that one resolve itself?
He wondered how quietly Colm Donovan would come in the end.



Chapter Forty-Eight



STARRETT FELT AS if he'd nearly reached the last chapter of a book,
but unless he fully understood everything that had occurred
before, the ending would be meaningless.
Fortunately, by the time he returned to Tower House, Sergeant
Packie Garvey, Bean Gharda Nuala Gibson and Garda Francis Casey
were already making great progress on the contents of the incinerator.
They discovered a belt buckle, a US Marshal's one, just like the type
Chris Moore said his father wore. They discovered several metal buttons
with the Levi lettering, just like the ones that had been stitched on to the
denim shirts Chris and his brother and sister had bought their father two
Christmases before, and which, at the time of his death, had been part of
the carpenter's daily uniform. They discovered two metal toecaps exactly
like the ones used on Timberland boots; moreover, one of them had a
severe dint in it, a dint which could have been caused by a scaffolding pole
falling direcdy on to it, a scaffolding pole like the one that had fallen on
James Moore's foot the day he rescued his friend Dan McGuinness.
Starrett went to his office and wrote up his crime book. That done,
he returned to the interview room to visit a very subdued Ivan
Morrison. Starrett explained to him that he had to detain the first minister
for his own safety and that he was no longer under suspicion.
Morrison asked only that Starrett inform Betsy Bell of his whereabouts:
he felt that she might be concerned about him.
Next, Starrett visited Major Newton Cunningham and presented
the details of his case.
The inspector was in no hurry to pick up Colm Donovan. He knew
that as long as Donovan thought Ivan Morrison was in the frame and
under the spodight, the builder would feel comfortable. He picked up the pieces of evidence Garvey and the team had recovered from
Donovan's incinerator, cleaned them up and placed them in plastic evidence
bags.
Starrett and Garvey then drove down to the Moore household in
Downings. Most of the journey passed in silence, save for Garvey saying,
"I still find it hard to believe that Colm Donovan could crucify a
fellow human being."
"Does that mean you accept that he could murder another man? It's
just that you don't think he could have crucified him?"
"But jeez, Inspector, nailing a man to a cross--good God, what's
that all about?"
Starrett didn't reply; he was preparing himself for meeting the
Moo res.
Dan McGuinness was installed in the Moore kitchen, as were Nora
and Chris, who, after the initial greetings, said, "You've solved the case,
haven't you? You know who killed my father?"
"We've a little way to go yet."
"But you have someone in mind?"
"Yes, we do," Starrett replied.
"But you won't tell me who he is yet, will you?"
"No, Chris. We need to be 100 per cent sure," Starrett replied. "We
need you to look at these thing, please, and see if you can identify
them."
Garvey placed the plastic evidence bags on the centre of the kitchen
table.
"Ah, no . . . it's my dad's belt buckle," Chris Moore said, slumping
down on the chair in front of the table. Tears streamed down his face,
and then he started to sob.
The boy searched through the remainder of the evidence bags, the
crinkling of the bags and his sobbing the only sounds in the kitchen. Dan
McGuinness waddled over towards Chris. His large hand dwarfed the
boy as he touched his shoulder in comfort. Nora did the same on the
other shoulder. Chris was biting hard on his lips as he turned to face his
mam, holding an evidence bag up towards her. "Mam ..." he started.
"I know, Chris," Nora said, letting go of her son's shoulder and
walking over to the airing cupboard beside the fireplace. From inside it
she produced a freshly pressed denim shirt, which she handed to
Starrett.
"Could I possibly borrow it for a few days?" Starrett asked.
"Yes, if it helps, but could you please look after it for us?"
"Right, yes, of course," Starrett said, walking back to the table and
sitting down beside the boy. "Chris, I need you to know how important
the information you gave me when we had our chat down on the
beach, and out in your father's shed, was. All the stuff you remembered
was invaluable to us."
Dan McGuinness stood fast with his hand on the boy's shoulder.
Starrett rose, and Nora took his place at the table.
As he and Garvey were about to pull out of the drive, Chris came
rushing out of the house, furiously wiping his eyes. He ran over to
Starrett's side of the car, the passenger side. Starrett wound down the
window, and Chris put his hand through it in order to shake his hand.
"I just wanted to say thank you, thank you both," Chris said,
stooping slightly so he was addressing Garvey as well. "Thank you both
for working so hard on my father's case."
"Fair play to you, Chris," Starrett said from his heart. "As I said, we
couldn't have done it without you."
Chris Moore, now the man of the Moore household, stood back
from the car. He waved them goodbye with one hand and dried his eyes
with the other.

Chapter Forty-Nine



COLM DONOVAN WAS picked up without fuss at his house.
Garvey told Starrett that Donovan seemed more amused than
concerned.
By the time Donovan was led into the interview room, Starrett
had laid the evidence bags carefully out on the table before him.
Starrett had also placed Moore's freshly pressed denim shirt in a large
evidence bag.
Donovan clocked the belt buckle immediately, but didn't say a
word.
"How can I help you?" Donovan asked Starrett before he'd even sat
down.
The inspector nodded to Garvey to commence proceedings officially
by turning on the recorder and announcing the date, Tuesday 7
June; the time, 16.45; and those present: Colm Donovan, Sergeant
Packie Garvey and Inspector Starrett.
"Colm, would you like your solicitor present?" Garvey asked
immediately.
"Sure, what would I need a solicitor for?" he replied through an
awkward smile.
Starrett found it hard to believe that people still insisted on refusing
a solicitor in the hope that such an action might send out an "I
don't need a solicitor therefore I've got nothing to hide" message.
Starrett decided to avoid the dance of trying to trap Donovan in a
game of words.
"Colm, we know you had an affair with Mrs Morrison," he stated
for the record.
"Aye, me and Jimmy both."
"And, of course, you know that Mrs Morrison was pregnant?"
Colm moved around in his chair, not exactly looking uncomfortable.
He was leaning back in it, with Starrett stretched over the table
that separated them. The detective was so tight up to the table, he was
barely sitting on his chair.
"We know that you were the father of her child, Colm," Starrett said.
This statement hit the intended button.
Donovan tightened his jaw. He pushed his chair further back from
the table with his feet and removed the pack of Camels from his sleeve,
offering them to Garvey.
"I'm sorry," said Garvey, directing his words as much at Starrett as
at Donovan, "but there's no smoking allowed."
Starrett said, "Colm, can you tell me what you were doing between
the hours of 22.00 on Thursday 2 June and 02.00 on Friday 3 June,
just gone?"
Donovan looked at Garvey, and at Starrett; then he turned his
attention to the evidence bags spread out on the table in front of him.
He looked at the tape-recorder, before looking back at Starrett. The
inspector had very non-judgemental, compassionate eyes and a way of
looking at people that made them feel that he completely understood
them. Starrett and Donovan remained locked in a stare, as the clock on
the wall ticked loudly.
Finally Donovan spoke: "I was crucifying Jimmy Moore."

Chapter Fifty

a
o
K," STARRETT SIGHED. "Let's stop for a moment here and
get you a solicitor."
"And my priest, please," Donovan added immediately.
As Starrett awaited the solicitor and the priest, he kept his crooked
and lucky fingers crossed and prayed that Donovan would need such
an absolution that he would provide the details on tape.
Twenty minutes later, local solicitor Russell Leslie and Donovan's
parish priest, Father Paul Flynn, joined the original trio.
Garvey made a fresh announcement for the benefit of the recorder,
and Starrett said, "OK, Colm, where did you first see James Moore on
the evening of Thursday last?"
"I saw him when he entered the Manse," Donovan replied.
"What time would that have been?"
"I'd say somewhere between eight-fifteen and eight-thirty."
"Where were you exactly when you spotted James Moore entering
the Manse?"
"I was parked in St Mary's Terrace, across from Mortimer's Lane."
"Did he see you at that time?"
"No. He came up from the bottom of Mortimer's Lane. He always
parked down outside Conway's pub."
"Were you hanging around on the off chance he might show up?"
"No, I'd just been in to see Amanda."
"Oh?" Starrett said in genuine surprise.
"I'd been in to see her to try and talk some sense into her,"

Donovan said. "Aye, she was a beautiful woman and all, but she could
be shirty enough when she wanted to be. She was scared I was going to
ruin her romantic candlelight dinner with Jimmy, so she was keen to
get me out of the way. Jimmy was my replacement, you see, but I never
for one moment believed that they would ever get it together."
At this point, Father's Flynn's eyebrows reached towards the faraway
heavens.
"How did you and she meet?"
"When I was working for Betsy Bell's husband, Billy. After we
chatted a few times, she made no bones about the fact that she wanted
me and . . ." Donovan paused to steal a brief glance at Father Flynn
before continuing, "... she asked me to come up to the Manse and
unblock one of her drains."
Russell Leslie rolled his eyes, as Father Flynn crossed himself.
"How long ago would this have been?"
"Oh, maybe as much as a year ago."
"And when did it finish?" Starrett asked
"About three months ago."
"But when I first interviewed you," Garvey said, "you told us
Jimmy was having an affair with Amanda at that point."
"Yes, well, I wasn't exactly going to admit to you that I was having
an affair with Amanda, was I? There was an overlap where I was still
riding her, even though she was growing interested in Jimmy. They
hadn't done anything at that stage, of course. But then, when they started,
didn't he only come and blabber to me about it?"
"So, even when we questioned you first, you were trying to put
First Minister Morrison in the frame for James' murder?" Starrett suggested.
"Trying,"
Donovan admitted. "Anyway, she told me to get out. She
told me Jimmy was coming around for dinner. She told me if I didn't
leave her alone, she would make sure Betsy and some of her other
friends would never use me to do work for them again. It all got a bit
ugly. Don't get me wrong, I'd never hit a woman, but we were shouting
and screaming at each other. I told her she was going to seed and
that she'd better watch out or she'd lose her man. She patted her stomach
and said, "This is not fat: this is a child, Jimmy's child." She told
me they were going off together and that was it and to get out. I knew
it wasn't Jimmy's child; it was my child. Aye, Starrett, I knew it was my

child."
"How did you know that?" Starrett asked.
"I knew," said Donovan, "because Jimmy had had the snip. He'd
said he quite simply didn't want to have any more children with Nora,
so he'd taken the best precaution."
Father Flynn crossed himself again.
"When she told me she was pregnant," Donovan continued
through his now permanent pained expression, "it really took the wind
out of my sails. I didn't have the stomach for an argument any more. I
let her throw me out, and then I saw Jimmy go into the Manse about
twenty minutes later. I sat in my car fuming, and I waited until Jimmy
came out."
"What time would that have been?" Starrett asked.
"Just before eleven o'clock."
"And then?" Starrett prompted.
"Then I steamed down Mortimer's Lane after him in my car. I
pulled up beside him, opened the passenger door and offered him a lift.
I was so fecking mad I was barely able to contain myself."
"Aren't you meant to caution your client about saying anything
incriminating?" Father Flynn interrupted, addressing Russell Leslie.
"No, I'm just meant to ensure that there are no legal irregularities
or improprieties taking place during the interview. So far, everything
has been done by the book," the well-dressed solicitor replied.
Donovan ignored the interruption and carried on: "I told him that
he had to stop seeing Amanda or else I was going to tell Nora. He told
me that he and Amanda had decided to give their relationship a proper
go and that he was about to tell Nora himself. And I lost it. I stopped
the van just outside the library, and I hit him sofeckinghard with a baseball
bat I kept beside me in the seat that he was knocked out. I sat there
for a while. I don't know how long I waited for him to come around,
but he didn't, though he still had a pulse. So I drove back up towards
the house, and I started to worry that as he'd been out for so long, I'd
probably done him brain damage. I was worried he was going to die on
me and that I'd go away for ever. Then I had a thought: if Jimmy was
dying or dead, maybe I'd be able to win Amanda back. I only needed to prove to her that I was the father of her child. Then my brain just went
off on one. I had an idea of how I could get rid of that pompous idiot,
the blasted first minister, at the same time. I'd crucify Jimmy in
Morrison's church. At the same time, I felt that I was making an example
of Jimmy and I'd be able to remove any evidence connecting myself.
A double-whammy, you could say. So, I drove back to my yard--"
"Any idea what time this would have been?" Starrett interrupted.
"I'd say we're well after midnight by this time."
"And Jimmy still hadn't come around?"
"No. He was out cold, but still showing a pulse. I picked up some
wood, rope, barbed-wire, nails, as well as the tools I figured I'd need. I
drove back into Ramelton and, as usual, the Second Federation
Church's doors were unlocked. I carried Jimmy and my stuff into the
church and laid him out in front of the pulpit. Then I locked the door
from the inside."
Father Flynn crossed himself again.
"Then I said to myself, 'What the feck do you think you're doing
here?' I said, 'Cop yourself on, Colm.' And I gave up on the idea of
killing him. And then, maybe because I'd moved him, he started to
come around, to make gurgling sounds. Then blood started to come
out of his mouth. I started to panic. I thought he was going to die, so I
went back to my original plan. He was still making gurgling noises, so
I tore off all of his clothes. I tied a couple of my wife's chamois about
him as a loincloth. I got a lot of gip from the wife over nicking her
chamois. She missed them immediately when she next went to clean
our windows."
"Aye, right," Starrett said.
"I turned him over and I used his belt to lash him about the back.
Honestly, Starrett, it was like I was watching someone else whip him.
I fell in a right old rage at him. My heart wasn't really in the first few
strokes of the belt. Then I started to grow angrier at Amanda and what
they'd been doing together, and it was like a frenzy just took me over.
"Ah God, Colm son. What's to become of you?" Father Flynn said.
Donovan didn't so much as glance at the priest, before carrying on,
"When he was lying on the floor, I got one of the bits of wood and
whacked him across both legs to break them. I nailed two pieces of
wood together to make a cross, and I nailed Jimmy to it. God forgive
me, but that's what I did. I remember thinking at the time that I was
behaving too calmly for what I was doing. I can remember being surprised
by how easily the nails sank into him. I wrapped the barbed wire
around in a circle and put it on his head and I drove it deep down into
his scalp. I'm not proud of it now, but I whipped him again. I kept
thinking that the closer I could make it appear to Jesus' crucifixion, the
more likely it was that Ivan Morrison would be suspected. Jimmy was
still out cold, and there was fecking blood everywhere. I struggled to
put the cross up, and then, once I'd finally got it in position, I had to
take it down again because it was too unsteady. I had to nip out to the
van and get some rope to fix the cross to the pulpit." Donovan stopped
talking as if he was just realising for the first time what he'd done.
He continued in a whisper: "Then I took one of my long wood
chisels and I stabbed him through the heart to put him out of his
misery."
Starrett knew that Donovan had battered the body of James Moore
a lot more than he was admitting.
"Aye, I thought I'd looked after it all. I rang her on her mobile,
after you found the body. She was up at Betsy's. I wanted her back. I
told her she was having my child. I explained to her how I knew that
Jimmy couldn't father children any more. But then," Donovan said, "I
obviously drove her over the edge. She had to go and jump in the water
and kill herself and the babby too. I'll never forgive myself for that." He
stopped and seemed to be searching his mind for some kind of reason,
something that would explain it all. All he was able to come up with
was, "If only she'd left it alone and stayed with me, none of this would
have happened."
"If only you'd stayed with your wife," Father Flynn said.


Chapter Fifty-One

DONOVAN WAS LED away by Garvey to be processed and
charged. His solicitor tagged along, presumably to make sure
everything was done by the book.
Starrett noted how everyone in Tower House looked at and treated
Donovan differently now from how they'd looked at and treated him a
mere hour and ten minutes earlier, when he'd first entered the building.
Then he'd been just a local builder. Now he was a self-confessed murderer,
and a murderer who'd crucified his victim. Gardai young and old,
men and women alike, were stealing second looks at him now, trying to
figure out how an ordinary builder from the townland of Ramelton had
nailed a fellow human being to a cross.
Starrett supposed that even murderers had to come from somewhere.
They had to be born into some family; someone had to be their
father, their mother, brother, sister, wife, son and daughter. In the coming
months, all of these people and all of Donovan's life would be put
under the spotlight, as each in turn tried to reach some understanding
as to why human beings are driven to murder.
Starrett's take was that murderers are largely frightening because
there is no logical understanding as to why they do what they do. Even
Donovan, in a cool, calm and collected way, had described to his priest,
his solicitor, and arresting members of the Garda Siochana how he'd
watched a detached version of himself whipping and--eventually--
killing his former friend, James Moore.
Starrett walked Father Flynn up to the front door.

"How did you know it was him?" Flynn asked, once they'd reached
the high steps of Tower House.
"Oh, lots of things," Starrett said with a sigh. "Well, there were his
wife's missing chamois, and we found Moore's wedding ring in
Morrison's study, but only after Donovan had tipped us off to go looking
for something else in the same room."
"Planted?"

"Yes," Starrett agreed. "You see, Donovan had also done some work
in the Manse and would most certainly have known his way around
the place. Maybe he was even able to copy a key." Starrett stopped
there. He and the priest watched as a dog waddled across Gamble
Square, totally unperturbed as two cars swerved and braked hard to
avoid it.

Village disasters averted, Starrett continued, "Anyway, there was
one thing that kept niggling away at me. I kept coming back to the
point that if the first minister had murdered James Moore and if he'd
wanted to make it look like the crucifixion of Jesus Christ, then he
most certainly wouldn't have broken James Moore's legs."
"Good point, Starrett," Flynn said. "First Minister Morrison, for all
his earthly faults, is well-read in the scriptures, as you appear to be
yourself."

Starrett ignored the compliment. He was thinking that pretty
soon James Moore and Colm Donovan would achieve a degree of
notoriety. Maybe there'd even be documentaries; maybe the ex-lovers,
husbands and wives of all the principals in the drama would be selling
their stories to the tabloids.
As if reading his mind, Father Flynn said, "I'd better head back
home and change into my good suit, ready for the interviews."

Chapter Fifty-Two



ON THE SATURDAY night, two and a half weeks later, Starrett
was having a quiet early drink in the Bridge Bar. Newspaper
articles concerning the crucifixion of James Moore had largely
run their course. The last of the big media wagons had pulled out of
Ramelton, and things were returning . . . well, not so much to normal,
as to how they'd been before the crucifixion.
Starrett was enjoying a drink with two mates, John Mclvor and
James McDaid, when he noticed a couple he recognised. He went over
to them.
"Mr and Mrs Gallagher," he said, shaking their hands.
"Please call us Ivor and Patricia."
"I will, indeed I will," Starrett smiled, using his pint of Guinness
to point around the bar. "I see you're settling well into village life.
How's it going?"
"Aye, well," Ivor said, "I've got as much work as I can handle."
"And more than that," his wife said. "I haven't seen him an awful
lot since we arrived here."
"Oh, Ivor, be careful about that," Starrett cautioned. "It's not a
village to leave a beautiful wife unattended in."
"Oh, we're OK now," she said, snuggling up close to her husband
and embarrassing him slightly. "We've got him all to ourselves for this
entire weekend."
"Good," Starrett said. "I'll leave youse to it."
On the way back to his traditional back corner of the bar, Starrett
spotted Nuala Gibson and Francis Casey enjoying a wee drink over by
the stage area. He stood them a round and exchanged pleasantries with
them. As he walked away he thought he heard Nuala say something
about, "a friend of yours", but the noise of the bar drowned her voice
out. He just rejoined his mates, and they picked up their conversation
about classic cars, Formula One, Eddie Irvine and American West
Coast contemporary music.
About thirty minutes later, they were interrupted by a quiet, almost
apologetic, "Excuse me?"
Mclvor said, "Not a bother, what can we do for you?" and he
rubbed his hands together grocer style.
Starrett was looking at McDaid and Mclvor, and the intruder was
standing to his right, but out of his line of vision.
"Excuse me," the gentle voice said again, this time adding,
"Starrett."
Then he recognised the sound, the scent and the presence beside
him: it was Maggie Keane.
"Ah, Maggie," Starrett said, turning, and she leaned her cheek to
him to receive his kiss.
"It's good to see you again."
"It's good to see you too," Starrett replied.
She was dressed in a black, figure-hugging trouser suit and white
shirt. With her long, dark hair and her eyes of blue, she looked simply
beautiful. She tried a smile, but it didn't work too well, so she reverted
to her usual serious look.
"Ah, sorry, forgive me," Starrett said, taking his hand from the
small of her back where it had been resting since he had kissed her on
the cheek. "These boyos are two members of the James gang, John and
James."
"Our big brother Jesse is at home tonight washing his nylons,"
McDaid said, and offered hands were duly shaken.
"This is Maggie Keane," Starrett said.
"Pleased to meet you," Maggie said, shaking McDaid's hand more
enthusiastically. "Goodness, you must be very old if you know what
nylons are, I believe they went out with de Valera."
"Aye, gone but never forgotten," McDaid said wistfully, as Mclvor
and Starrett cracked up.
"What can I get you to drink, Maggie?" Starrett asked, using the
opportunity of the question to put his hand back on the small of her
back.
She answered so quietly that Starrett had to say, "Sorry," and lean
his ear in very close to her mouth.
She blew gently into his ear, and the thrill it sent from the tip of
his toes to the crown of his black-haired head nearly buckled his legs
from under him. When he turned to look at her, she winked wickedly
and mouthed the words "red wine".
Brid, the owner of the Bridge Bar, passed by the four of them and
looked twice before saying, "My goodness, Maggie Keane. How are you
doing? It's certainly been a long, long while since we've seen youse two
in here together."
At which point Mclvor and McDaid looked at each other in a
Laurel and Hardy moment, then turned back towards the bar and, in
a display of synchronised drinking, took generous sips of their
Guinness.
Maggie wasn't a great shouter, so Starrett suggested they go outside
on to the pavement, where they could at least hear themselves think.
The pavement was, as usual, packed with smokers, and as Starrett stole
a glance at Maggie's perfectly formed, Ferrari-red lips, he regretted the
last Player he'd smoked. Coincidentally, it was also the final cigarette in
the stash Garvey had been holding for him. He resolved, as never
before, to quit smoking. They crossed the road, away from the smokers,
and sat on the low wall, which bordered the road from the steep
drop down to the River Lennon.
Starrett was dressed in his regular outfit of black leather shoes and
tailored trousers, topped off with a pink shirt and dark blue American
style windbreaker.
"I'm sorry about the other morning," she said once they'd settled.
"Ach, not a bother," Starrett replied, sipping at his Guinness. "It
was great to see you again, no matter how brief the visit."
"I just found myself slipping back into that couples thing with you
again, and I had this flash of betraying my husband."
"But sure it was only a bite of breakfast."
"But I was very comfortable with you in your house, Starrett, and
that scared me, that's all," she said, and took a good gulp of her wine.
"Maggie, it was really great to see you again and spend a little time
with you. I dreamt for so long about seeing you again and what we'd
do and what we'd say ..." Starrett paused, picking his next words carefully
"I don't want to scare you away again or anything, but I really
would like us to be . . ."
"To be something again?" she prompted.
"To be something again," he agreed. "I'm not even sure what, but
I'll take a wee bit of seeing you, over not seeing you at all, every time."
Maggie Keane was sitting so close to him that he could feel her ribs
against him; he could smell her. She was looking down to the ground.
Her jet-black hair fell about her shoulders, obscuring her face and eyes
from him. As far as he could tell, she was comfortable sitting there
beside him.
If the truth be told, she wasn't entirely relaxed, maybe even a little
ill-at-ease, but inside her heart, there was basically contentment. She
looked as if she'd returned home. She might not be staying long, but at
least for now, she was home.
"I hear you and the good doctor have stopped stepping out," she
said.
He decided to say nothing and hid the space with another sip of
Guinness. God bless the Guinness, he thought, the saviour in millions of
such tricky moments.
Starrett was using his left hand to hold his glass. Maggie shifted her
wine to her left hand and then lifted her other hand briefly, touching the
back of his, as she turned slowly to look at him. He sensed the movement
and moved slowly in her direction. She caught his eye and winked.
It was classic Maggie Keane: always her way of telling him that it
was OK.
"You've still got kind hands, Starrett," she said, lifting his hand in
her own. "I see your crooked finger ..."
"Is still crooked?"
"Well, yes," she agreed.
They sat for a while like that, content in each other's company and
not needing to say anything, maybe even a little scared of saying the
wrong thing.
Eventually Maggie spoke: "Starrett, you know I didn't bump into
you by accident tonight. There was something I wanted to ask you."
"Oh?"
"Yes, I wanted to know if you would come to a party?"
"Bejeepers, aye, you can count me in," Starrett said enthusiastically.
"What are we celebrating?"
"It's Joe's twentieth birthday, and he's humouring me by having a
'do' for the family at the house before he goes off with his mates somewhere
for a proper party."
She seemed to sense his unease. Resting her hands back on his
knees, she said, "Joe, Moya and Katie have all heard about you, Starrett.
Niall was a big fan of your detective work, so you're a bit of a legend
with the kids in our house. They still follow your career."
"Bejeepers," was all Starrett could say.
"I told them I was going to invite you to Joe's party, as my date, and
they're all very excited about the chance to meet you."
"As your date, eh?"
"Yes, Starrett, my date."
"I'll need to check my diary," he replied.
"I'll take that as a yes, then? Listen, Starrett, I'll let you get back to
your mates. I'm off with Nuala and Francis for dinner at An Bonndn
Bui down in Rathmullan."
"Great food," he said.
"Right," Maggie said, walking back across the road. "I'll say goodbye
here."
As she started to give him an awkward hug, Starrett took her in his
arms and pulled her towards him. She came willingly, and the two of
them stood there amongst the smokers for a few seconds, happily hugging
each other.
Starrett had the feeling that she would have stayed in his arms for
ever. As they pulled away from each other, she looked him straight in
the eye and winked.
The End.



SOME OTHER READING


Brandon is a leading Irish publisher of new fiction and
non-fiction for an international readership. For a
catalogue of new and forthcoming books, please write to
Brandon/Mount Eagle, Cooleen, Dingle, Co. Kerry,
Ireland. For a full listing of all our books in print, please
goto

www.brandonbooks.com


PAUL CHARLES
Sweetwater
"Almost like an Inspector Morse without the
irascibility and lovelorn aspirations...The puzzle
slowly fits together, exposing a rich pageant of
human relationships. An exemplary case for the
quiet sleuth of British crime fiction." Maxim
Jakubowski, Guardian
ISBN 978-0-86322-367-9

JACK BARRY
Miss Katie Regrets
From Dublin's criminal underbelly comes a gripping
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who will, under pressure, kiss and tell. And,
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The Redemption Factory "While most writers sit in their study and make it
up, Sam Millar has lived it and every sentence
evokes a searing truth about men, their dark past,
and the code by which they live. Great title, great
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Cyrus Nowrasteh ISBN 978-0-86322-339-6

SAM MILLAR
The Darkness of Bones
In a derelict orphanage, a tramp discovers the
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and the corruption at the heart of the respectable
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KEN BRUEN
WINNER OF THE SHAMUS AND MACAVITY AWARDS FOR BEST
NOVEL,WINNER OF THE CRIME WRITERS ASSOCIATION OF
AMERICA BEST SERIES AWARD FOR THE JACK TAYLOR NOVELS

The Guards "Bleak, amoral and disturbing, The
Guards breaks new ground in the Irish thriller
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ISBN 978-0-86322-323-5

The Killing of the Tinkers
"Jack Taylor is back in town, weighed down with
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The Magdalen Martyrs
"Exhibits Ken Bruen's all-encompassing ability to
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rough, tough, mean and dirty." The Irish Times
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The Dramatist
"Collectively, the Jack Taylor novels are Bruen's
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most profound installment of the series to date...
Readers who dare the journey will be days shaking
this most haunting book out of their heads."
This Week
ISBN 978-0-86322-319-8

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KEN BRUEN (ED)
Dubfin Noir
Brand new stories by Ray Banks, James O. Born,
Ken Bruen, Reed Farrell Coleman, Eoin Colfer.Jim
Fusilli, Patrick J. Lambe, Laura Lippman, Craig
McDonald, Pat Mullan, Gary Phillips, John Rickards,
Peter Spiegelman, Jason Starr, Olen Steinhauer,
Charlie Stella, Duane Swierczynski, Sarah Weinman
and Kevin Wignall. ISBN 978-0-86322-353-2


KITTY FITZGERALD
Small Acts of Treachery
"Mystery and politics, a forbidden sexual attraction
that turns into romance; Kitty Fitzgerald takes the
reader on a gripping roller coaster through the
recent past This is a story you can't stop reading,
with an undertow which will give you cause to
reflect." Sheila Rowbotham
ISBN 978-0-86322-297-9

J.S. COOK
A Cold-Blooded Scoundrel
An Inspector Devlin Mystery
In London, at a time when Jack the Ripper is still
fresh in the memory, a well-known male prostitute
is brutally murdered, the head neatly severed, and
the body set on fire. ISBN 978-0-86322-336-5

EVELYN CONLON
Skin of Dreams
"A courageous, intensely imagined and tightly
focused book that asks powerful questions of
authority... this is the kind of Irish novel that is all
too rare." Joseph O'Connor
ISBN 978-0-86322-306-8